Every Day Struggle

I struggled to write yesterday.  I struggle this morning.  I'm afraid today's entry will sound like an incident report.  My life of balance and routine may not be working out.  I have the sniffles this morning.  Rhonda may be right.  My father used to tell a story about a man who had a goldfish.  He didn't care for it well, fed it too much, didn't change the water so that it was dirty and murky, but still the fish survived and finally it got too big for the little tank.  The man was impressed by the fish's tenacity, and he decided to get a bigger tank and to take better care of things.  You know the rest.  Within a few days of being introduced to the new environment with the filtration system and the crystal clear water, the fish was dead.  My father used this as a cautionary tale about changing your habits.  Good or bad.  Or his.

But that came from a barbaric generation who had no t.v., no internet, few phones, no Whole Food.  They lived like animals.  They ate white bread and bologna and liverwurst sandwiches and food from cans and worked fifty weeks a year.  They didn't take health supplements.  Sex was a dirty subject, so they told nasty jokes.  No wonder they smoked and drank.  They didn't think a long, healthy life was their birthright.  Perhaps not even desirable.

Summer is over they say.  Bob Dylan is a painter.  Frankencamera is no closer to being a reality.  I have no printer, and sunrise is gray with drizzle.  I move ever-closer to another day at the factory.