A Writer's Notebook, Day One-Thousand-One-Hundred-And-Fifty

I am not up to writing very much on here tonight, am barely holding it together right now.  It is my Dad's birthday and I miss him so much.  It is a strange thing for me, as my Dad's death is also a major inflection point in the world in ways that go beyond the personal.  He passed away just before Trump became a major Republican candidate for president, just when the political reality here in the United States shifted so dramatically.  In many ways, for me, it feels as if the death of my father was the catalyst for the world sliding into craziness.  Things now are so alien from what they were when he was alive.  I need to write more on this, I know, and I have tried, but I don't think that I can tonight.  I can only say how much I miss him, how much I feel his absence from the world each day.  I wish I could even must the strength to talk about him right now, to share some stories about him, explain who he was a bit, but in truth, it is all jumbled up and I feel as if any attempt to share my memories of him would fail, would be hollow compared to the man I knew, and I cannot handle that now any more than I could handle digging deep enough to do something more genuine.  I know that time will come, but it does not need to be tonight.

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