I disdain time. I've always said that time is an anathema, and I mean that sincerely. Sometimes I wonder if it's a social construct, like money and marriage. What if we stopped believing in time? Would the clocks fall apart and calendars become obsolete? I think we're safe to stick with Journey on this one though, Don't Stop Believin'. (It's not quite as potent with the g, believe me.)
You've heard the old adage: You can pick a rose. You can pick your nose. But you can't pick your family. In To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, there is this quote:
"You can choose your friends but you sho' can't choose your family, an' they're still kin to you no matter whether you acknowledge 'em or not, and it makes you look right silly when you don't."I don't think that's quite true though, speaking as someone, who was adopted at six months of age. I also adopted my son, so I guess it's a family tradition. My point is that through adopting, you can come about as close as you can to choosing your own family. Once we get a handle on genetic manipulation, you'll not only be able to choose your child's eye color, but also whether they'll be musically proficient or mathematically gifted.
Pat Robertson recently said to a woman caller on his show, who had recently experienced a miscarriage, that she'll never know god's reason for taking her unborn baby. Maybe it was destined to be the next Hitler. He said that. I think, relatively speaking, that Pat Robertson is horse's ass. (Sorry to all my horse friends out there.) On the other hand, anyone who calls into Pat Robertson, looking for advice, gets just what they deserve.
Back to time and it's effects. We all know that if you're having a bad day, then times slows to a crawl, but say Jimmy Sue over there is having a dandy day. That means that his day is probably whizzing by. Therefore, we all experience time at different rates. We have clocks and calendars in an attempt to keep us all in sync, but we're obviously all marching to the beat of a different drummer. At least I am anyway. Sometimes I'm marching to the beat of crazy old Ginger Baker, and sometimes I'm marching to the snazzy syncopation of Buddy Rich.
This weekend I'm going camping with my son. It's our first father and son camping trip, which just happens to fall on Father's Day weekend. I expect my inner rhythms to slow to match the tempo of the river over the rocks, or the soughing of the evergreen branches above. We will be out of cell phone range, and I'm not even going to bother to get the Wifi password from the park rangers. I'm just kidding. There are no park rangers anymore.
Next week I'll be back with campfire tales and mosquito bites. I'll try and leave my cynicism in Granite Falls before I enter the National Park. This curmudgeon will transform into a cuddly woodsman, with his feet in the river and his head in the stars.