Too Busy to Be Angry

For some reason I feel like I should be pissed off about something. Recently, I have been able to take a breath and pop my head above the frayed ends of my life. When this occurs and I can take a moment to evaluate the doings and goings on outside my small sphere of influence, I usually find some outrage or really dumb occurrence to get my bowels in an uproar over. Not this time. I found no one thing stirring the fires that still must be smouldering deep inside somewhere. It was not ambivalence or even apathy. I just could not get riled over anything.

I did become an angry man a couple of days ago, but it only lasted a few hours and I was over it. Cannot even dredge up why I was angry now. I guess I just had to get some of the emotional bile up and out. That's what happens when the realities of my day to day existence overwhelm my ability to consider anything more than getting through the day. I have been too busy to be angry.

This lack of passion for things and events I have no control over bothered me. Totally out of character. I visited my favorite politics forum hoping for some kind of jump start. I looked up a more contrary old fart than myself. Surely he would piss me off with something he said. But no luck. While everyone seems a tad pissy because of our lost summer, no one I know appears to be pissed off.

I tried to get angry about this continued assault on Obama's birthplace. But all I can do is laugh at the birthers and their desperate effort to pin anything they can on our president. In some ways I am almost envious of folks like them. It only takes the smallest spark or whispered mention of the word "left", "commie", or "health care" and their anger gets up to 9000 rpms in a heartbeat. They would not know how to act if they didn't have their panties in a bunch over something.

Which brings me to the idea of birthplaces in general. Odd how I can somehow find logical leaps where none existed before.

The official "Certified" copy of my birth certificate indicates I was "officially" born in the municipality of Colorado Springs in the great state of Colorado in 1952. Apparently during one of our many moves over the course of my childhood, the original had been lost. I have no idea what I weighed in at. I have no idea how tall I was. I have no recollection of the event whatsoever. I would guess it is safe to say I was shorter and weighed less on that first day than I do now. And most likely all the women thought I was cute. Puppies are always cute. Tired old hounds with dog breath on the other hand, well I guess some folks can still stand me.

So do not ask me if I was born in Colorado. I just don't know if I was. I am pretty sure I was. Ask me to prove it and all I can come up with is a tattered "official" copy. We moved from Colorado when I was four to Japan. My memories of both are sketchy like that period was spent on some alcoholic bender leaving me only brief flashes of moments to hang onto now. I had a dog and his name was Doolie. I learned to ride a bike in Colorado. We had a backyard made of dirt that was completely fenced in and big kids threw rocks at me as they hung from the top of it. But my sharpest memory is me laying in bed at night watching the thunderstorms roll over the east face of the Rockies. My first awesome light show. The clouds would hang there and it seemed the whole mountain side was under attack. I would try to guess which section of the ridge would be next to get lit up. It is this memory that makes me feel comfortable saying, "I was born in Colorado".

So how did I end up in Maine anyway? I guess it was because after 28 years of never really living anywhere I decided that I would give the idea of "settling down" a shot. I could always hit the road again I thought if things did not work out. The road will always be there. Now, 29 years later, I know that I have found my place in this World. I cannot envision me anywhere else. Not even on vacation.

Later..............................

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