7/26/23

 Wednesday, July 26, 2023

In bed at 10, up at 6:10.  71℉,  mostly cloudy, high of 83℉, AQI=146, UFSG, the wind is S at 8 mph, 4-11/19, rain expected this afternoon, dew points 63 to 73 today😩.  The sun rose at 5:36 and sets at 8:20, 14+44.

Sinead O'Connor, dead at 56, 12/8/1966 - 7/26/2023.  A courageous human being, a damaged soul.  Immensely talented singer.  Victim of sexual and physical child abuse.  Spiritual searcher.  Truth teller.  Sufferer.  Survivor of commitment in a Magdalene asylum.  Early accuser of Catholic Church abuse of children.  SNL, 10/3/1992.  The painting on the left is one I did decades ago, probably when we lived in Shorewood, using a reference photo of her. I couldn't capture her likeness, her stunning beauty but I've always known it's my attempt to paint Sinead.  I surprised myself drawing the underlying sketch freehand, a skill I've never come close to mastering.  Black Boys on Mopeds, I Am Stretched on Your Grave, Jerusalem, Nothing Compares 2 U, The Emperor's New Clothes, Just Like You Said It Would Be, so many . . .

Time to stop?  I started this journal on July 30 of last year.  I don't remember why I started.  I do remember wondering whether I would be disciplined enough to keep it up every day and thinking I would see if I could do it for one month, and then 3 months, and then 6 months and a year, which is almost here.  I have frequently wondered, in my head and in this journal, why I bother, what's the point?  I usually conclude that I'm just a compulsive writer, much more inclined to write out thoughts than to speak them.  This is partially from the realization that there aren't many people interested in listening to me pontificate or rant about whatever happens to get under my skin on any given day, usually determined by the morning newspapers, Chuck Clausen, The Lone Haranguer, the Bilious Bloviater.  I also think -and fear - that I am giving myself a daily test of my cognitive decline, executive function, and onset of increasing loss of memory and of dementia.  Am I still able to type? to write in complete sentences (except when I don't want to)?  To string together sentences coherently?  Or am I trying simply to leave a record of having been alive on these days, having occupied space, breathed air, had thoughts, seen and heard stuff, felt sentiments and emotions?  I live a pretty reclusive life, usually talking only to Geri about diurnal stuff.  No phone calls, no visiting.  Or maybe I'm just indulging in some old-fashioned narcissism, enjoying looking at my own words and thoughts on my laptop screen the way Narcissus enjoyed looking at his own face reflected in water.  Or maybe it's just boredom, ennui, or acedia or weltschmerz.  I can't forget what was probably the biggest impetus to start the journal, as a totally inadequate substitute for my daily morning conversations with my sister.  Whatever the combination of motivations, the year is almost over and I find myself wondering now whether I should call it quits, even whether I should just trash the hard copies that I have saved and delete the blog entries. I am embarrassed by my cynicism, pessimism, and feelings of hopelessness about the U.S. and much of the world.  Climate change, growth of fascism/authoritarianism, the demise of effective democracy, gun violence, mass shootings, and always thoughts of complicity, a lifetime of tolerating all of it, going along to get along.  Pathetic moral weakling.  Limousine liberal.

Micaela stopped for a visit in the late morning and early afternoon.  Good conversations  Joining her and Saul tomorrow at 6:30 for dinner at the Wisconsin Club.  Sad day: Tom's 79th birthday, the first since his death on 1/18.