Monday, May 23, 2011
A Quandary of Sorts, Dear Maestro…
It’s been a weird winter, dear maestro, I’m not blaming the weather, and I guess I’m trying to find a reason to fill this need to explain things. I look forward to spring every year, my dear maestro. And this is almost the end of days for May, and somewhere in between the lingering winter and the hesitant summer, spring just got hijacked. Do seasons get hijacked, my dear maestro?
Does time and tide diminish the zest to live? I love my country more than I dislike it, my dear maestro; and I like my political leaders well enough to trust them, which is to say I think they are good people. But does not the wise also go astray, my dear maestro? And when it is painfully and plainly obvious they are going astray is it not the job of a caring citizen to point out those flaws, my dear maestro?
There are those among us who do not live the life of a diary dictum, which is to say we live without agendas. Many people I count as my friends are poor, dear maestro, poor in the sense that they walk about literally with their belongings with them – all their worldly things can fit in a rugsack, and that is what they have in terms of what a man can carry. But there is something rich in them, maestro, and that is who they are.
They care enough for their fellow citizens to risk the wrath of the powers that be. I’m a little richer in that I drive a car so old it is developing wrinkles. And just yesterday, one of its ears went deaf when the back window shattered. I like to think it was the random and rampant noises the city is beseeched with.
Yet this is anything but a blame game, dear maestro, for in the end we are all journeying towards the grave. I’m only too painfully aware of that, which is why I’m writing to tell you dear maestro, that perhaps I’m either approaching or I now find myself in the midst of that pivotal period in the phase of a man’s life when he asks that all important self-inflected question, “where is my life going?”
It is not self-indulgence dear maestro, I’m aware of that trick. It is a question as primal as anything. This question has less to do with the perfections and ideals of life and more to do with another. Perhaps I should rephrase it thus: “what is goodness?”
I have a job dear maestro, and I go about the business of conducting that job as millions of my brethren do, only to find that hollow feeling awaiting them when they get home and find emptiness for company. I’ll try and refrain from talking about my son dear maestro, for that might cloud my judgment. This is not to evade what is obviously a very important factor of my life; or perhaps that is already contained in this letter I’m writing, dear maestro, for isn’t everything, from a blade of grass to the red wood, and the very sky and the earth and everything else, connected?
I guess I’m feeling under the weather, dear maestro, forgive me.
I promise I’ll be more forthcoming when I write to you next. Until then, dear maestro, give our like the strength to be.