So I’m driving to the grocery store which is in the midst of a major reconstruction and rearrangement, so much that each trip there is like taking part blindfolded in a mad scavenger hunt where the host changes the location of everything every day. But that’s my pain and why should I make it yours?
On the drive over I heard a song on the radio that contained a line that caught my attention. Really, a great line, one that the song does not fully explain. But I have been there many, many times in my short life. Here’s the chorus:
I’m living a war with time
I could still reach out and touch you and I
Wish I didn’t know the things I know
I’m standing in an open door
None of it was overrated and I
Never gonna wanna let you go
But I want you to go
Don’t even ask me, just go
It’s the line “Wish I didn’t know the things I know” that opened the door of a room filled with recollections and remembrances for me … knowledge I could have happily done without … learning from experiences I didn’t plan to have.
In AA meetings I often hear the expression “I have no regrets.” I think to myself – are they bonkers? Is that really possible? Because it’s a bit of bravado that I certainly don’t share. I don’t dote on them, ruminate on them endlessly, or become entrapped by them, but regrets … I’ve had a few. But then again, as Frank Sinatra often sang, too few to mention.
Wish I didn’t know the things I know. Quite a line.
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The song I’m talking about, BTW, is entitled War With Time, by Brandi Carlile.
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For me, at least, there is a short list of voices that I read nearly every day during these awkward times. Among them is the indestructible ancient Robert Reich, who wields a fiery pen and draws on a long lifetime hanging around politicians of all stripes. Right up there with him is Heather Cox Richardson, with her cool and level-headed assessments of the carnage as it happens. Next would be Timothy Snyder, whose book On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century I read last Spring to fortify myself against the avalanche of horsepucky that Cluck and his enablers were bringing down upon our heads.
I came across the trenchant comment on the right, and even though it relates to No Kings by name, it could have been applied to the reading I do without changing the meaning one bit.
It helps to know that some very intelligent people are walking point for us, and that they can see that a positive resolution is possible, down what they predict is going to be a rough road. But success will come only if we are intrepid.
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What a striking image it is that accompanies the article on Mike Lee’s war on wilderness.
Woof.
I love it.
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A recollection dusted itself off and presented itself last Thursday, unbidden and unwelcome. Because it reveals that at heart I am just another damned capitalist.
When I was around six years old, my family acquired a new puppy named Mollie. She was, like all the dogs in our extended family were, of mixed parentage. We brought her to our home on Second Avenue, and she was the darling of the family for the week that she lived with us. Her visit was cut short by her escaping through the backyard gate and running into the street where a passing car … you know the rest.
I was heartbroken. I gathered her up and placed her small body in a shoebox, to be buried in the backyard later that morning. At some point I decided that a creature as cute and lively as she had been deserved a funeral, so I scheduled one which was attended by the other boys my age from the neighborhood. There was a eulogy (me), some memorial stuff on display (collar, food dish), and then the interment.
Where does the capitalism come in, you ask? Well … I charged a five cent admission.
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Once a year, because I don’t want to spoil you, I serve up this song of songs. It goes beyond being a favorite of mine, whatever the next rung up would be. I think it was CRISPR-ed into my DNA while I slept.
Magnolia, by Lucinda Williams, who is an American original.
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Little Home In The Valley 