Good morning readers. Thanks for coming by for a read this morning.
I overslept, which almost never happens to me. Thoroughly pissed-off the chickens [their protests finally woke me] and the felines. Appropriate enough, I suppose, because I came out of sleep seething with anger. An anger that’s been simmering inside me for a few days, but I somehow was ignoring.
One of my favorite authors, Sir Terence David John “Terry” Pratchett[http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terry_Pratchett], Jeanne told me, has himself a case of Alzheimer’s. Hell, evidently he announced it to the public in 2007 and everyone in the world but my humble self knew it. Not that my knowing of it would have made any difference, except maybe if I’d been digesting the fact I’d have reacted in a more rational way than I did having it come as a surprise.
Found, I did, that I’d almost been thinking of Pratchett almost as a family member or close friend gradually over the years, which also caught me by surprise. The guy has a mind works so similarly to my own that when I read his books I sometimes found myself sort of juxtaposed, me creating his character, his dialogue, his plot, laughing as I did it.
So, time to go root hog or die back into my anger management rituals, I reckons. Time to bring discipline and routine back into the gratitude and forgiveness affirmations.
Forgiving old Terry for maybe dying before I do. Forgiving myself for being the flawed bastard I am, falling off the wagon, letting anger seep into my head. Forgiving the Universe for tossing a challenge of the sort Alzheimer’s brings into our lives which seem plenty challenging enough already, everything else being equal.
I’m surely going to miss knowing Terry Pratchett’s out there doing what I ain’t doing better than I could have done it.