 |
| Maya Angelou |
Woke this morning and my first thought was about Pat Sajak & China/India. The game show expert, in a recent denial of the idea of global warming, called those who support the idea that global warming must be halted, "Racists." A friend of mine, yesterday, wondered, "WHAT?" This morning, before I even arose from my bed to see what was the matter, I understood, the WHAT. If we don't allow India and China to develop their industrial might, millions will be doomed to poverty. Add millions in Africa too. They are peoples whose skin isn't tinted pink. Got it, friend? Those who use global warming as a reason to stop industrial development would, as a byproduct, become racists. Poor scientists. They come up with the facts and politics blindsides them with handfuls of shit.
 |
| Sunshining Day |
Then I get out of bed to find that Maya Angelou at 86 has died. Overwhelmed at 76, sitting with a paper before my eyes that blinds me to the sun-shining day outside my picture window, I feel old and tired but, mostly, sad. As I read Maya's lifetime of accomplishments, my petty goal to get someone other than myself to publish one book of mine before I die feels futile, impossible and, mostly, inept. A desire to abandon all thought, quit writing and sit in the sun, merely enjoying my continued existence, is overwhelming ... almost.
 |
| Father & Marie |
Today, it dawned on the Silent Boomer that I'd have to pick up my marbles and go back to start. Charley Manning can't be a detective at the Portland Police Bureau. The conspiracy he's investigating might go as high as D.C. and as far as China. He's definitely (probably) got to look into some happenings in Vietnam. Cohorts in a writer's meetup once remarked that you had to have your plot down firm before you began or you'd be lost. I can't pin my plot down yet. I know how it ends, but I'm not sure how to get there. Too many interesting angles to explore.
 |
| Tyrone Power |
Today, Manning was reborn as a "soldier of fortune," something along the line of a black ops Captain From Castile, a novel by Samuel Shellabarger, originally published in 1945 and made into a movie with Tyrone Power in 1947. My father was never much of a reader, but he said that Shellabarger's novels were his favorites. I found that novel on his shelves and read it while still living at home. [Holy cow, a paperback edition of that novel starts at $72.88 at Amazon!]
In '47 I'd be ten, just about right for loving a filmed adventure like "Captain From Castile" with Tyrone Power. Liked him specially in "The Razor's Edge" based on Somerset Maugham's novel. I fancied myself a Larry Darrell, searching for meaning in life, but I never went to India. Suddenly, nostalgia just seized me by the throat and choked me up.
