By now, during the course of the last fifty-some years—those of you out there who may have stumbled on to yours truly (Da Harv), while ensconced comfortable, or less than such, within our specific area of “La La” land—you may have noticed a thing or two written by me as I labored to travel forward against the grain of life often less than cordially presented by me.
Note: I write long sentences because that’s the way my thoughts work, conversationally, and the pattern by which they (the thoughts) pop in and out of my head.
Many years ago, I was labeled as an abstractionist. Quite frankly, I really don’t understand the label—I’m inclined to believe most people don’t truthfully understand the meaning, as well. Those people are often heard complaining to a group or partner in a conversation, how they are being misunderstood because they’re not able to think in the abstract. Translation: It’s a way of downing those folks as being too stupid to understand their scope (kind of what so many politicians are guilty of).
Many years ago, I was labeled as an abstractionist. Quite frankly, I really don’t understand the label—I’m inclined to believe most people don’t truthfully understand the meaning, as well. Those people are often heard complaining to a group or partner in a conversation, how they are being misunderstood because they’re not able to think in the abstract. Translation: It’s a way of downing those folks as being too stupid to understand their scope (kind of what so many politicians are guilty of).
I draw my subject matter from a great deal of the time from the past for two reasons:
1. The pain of the past often provides me a reason to laugh, and even celebrate about, as I reflect.
2. Reflections almost always provide me with refreshments. It’s what the truth does for me.
So, with the daily happenings we all live with, finding a good honest way to smile may be as good as it gets. Thinking back to, and visualizing myself jammed into my little kid’s bed, the expression of great overblown seriousness on my wife’s face as we together awaited my response to our seven-year old’s question at the breakfast table: “Will you stay with me again tonight, Daddy? I feel safe when you do.”
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