Not the day I’d anticipated. Right from the start. Disagreed with the preconceived agenda immediately which didn’t necessarily sweeten an already sour mood.

The raging glow of a nearly New England autumn, with all her inspired breathlessness- the setting for an unkempt, slightly relentless traveler off to fulfill his duties, while all the while about his head bounced ideas of want and failure, success and necessity, point and purpose, and so on. And so forth. Self-blame being of my pastimes, the acrobatics towards liability for the worst offences in my personal universe seem to dance inevitably towards and around my feet.

On and on, it seemed to go, withholding urges towards emotional outburst. Mutterings under my breath as my dissatisfaction with the outside world became more and more visible. Building, to some unavoidable crescendo inside, or so it appeared.

‘Dad? Are you alright? You seem like you’re in a bad mood.’

Broken, just like that.

On the way to and back from the pediatrician’s office, I must have somehow yielded my guise and the irritation in my soul grew in visibility to the one person on this entire planet I am sure I want to spare all my horrible traits.

‘Apologies kiddo. Just a bit flustered. You know I can’t stand how people drive in this nutmeg state.’

From that, the only emotion left was guilt for such blatant self-mindedness. And we’ve worked our way back from there towards something more balanced. In no little part thanks to her help.

Home sick from school was not on my bingo card, but when the kiddo wasn’t feeling well, the co-parenting consuls deduced and agreed it would be worth a doctor’s visit, being it the season for sick kids. All is well. No crisis. Should be fine for school tomorrow.

In the moments found between returning health and might to a fourth grader, plenty of which she is capable of operating on her own, I started working on a story idea I’d drummed up a few days back. A real tearjerker this one’ll be, guaranteed. But I required some insight my own experiences could not grant, vast though those experiences might be. Had to do with a wedding day and being that I’ve never had one of my own, I had to inquire elsewhere.

Always a bridesmaid, you see?

So, I asked three of my favorite brides about their big days. One question of logistics, and another of emotional type descriptions. As expected, got three different answers to each one. All lovely. All insightful. All of which will help with the opening of the fabricated tale, which will grasp attention pull the reader in for the rest of it. There needs to be a realism to one of the characters that is beyond something I have thus far, up to currently, been able to conjure, even in the abstract. Might be I’ll finish it soon, or at least a draft. Might even be that you might get to read it, all my loyal subscribers to these rambles. Gotta finish here first.

Always a bad habit of mine, starting several new things before I finish another. Wild, because the feeling of sensation associated with accomplishment is easily one of the most delectable brain chemical hits my reward system manages to grant me. Probably why I keep arriving back here, with you, on these evenings. Or whenever these words might cross your eyes. Could be years from now, maybe.

Or never, whispers that cynic, always about and out of grasp.

But anyway.

Was listening to two smart fellows talk the other day. A recording, not in-person, perhaps tragically. A brain scientist and a guy calling himself a futurist, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.

The latter of those two educated types mentioned the idea of transgenerational empathy. Something or another about concern for others beyond the instant types of gratification we so regularly abide in these modern times. A set up that connects us to the past and future of the species through the emotional pathways within ourselves. He used the term futures, which I found myself particularly fond of. Too often, to paraphrase with poetic inaccuracy, we think of our future as some singular destination. Likely rooted in the fear of death, or at least our assuredness of her eventual arrival.

But when you switch that singular to the plural, something seems to happen. Suddenly, there are countless steps forward, when thinking about it all more incrementally. That and the idea that purpose that defies our person. And how could any of us breathing now argue that, on top of the world of accomplishment granted to us, for better or for worse, by those who came before. And by many of the arguable numbers, this has been the best time to be alive as a human yet. No matter what those cellophane wrapped and digitally altered screen provocateurs might have you think.

We could blow it, though. And the potential is always there, and not unreasonably it looms closer towards the precipice than it has for a few decades. Possibly ever. At least since I’ve been around, being born back at the end of history. And among at least the visible petitioners for political persuasion in this modern world, there seems to be little more available than the balance and combination of demagoguery and soulless bureaucracy. Particularly here in the land of the free.

But that should be expected, being the contradiction of political or institutional office holding. And what kind of folks generally seek such ambitions. Summed up in divine comedy by Hitchhiker Adams.

‘Anyone who is capable of getting themselves made President should on no account be allowed to do the job.’

But I don’t necessarily suggest the revolutionary types rise to the top either. Too much inclination towards villainy with those ‘burn down the establishment’ types. I’d rather not find out what the modern equivalent of the guillotine might be. At least partial out of apprehension of the possibility of finding out the methods firsthand.

But change, that is an idea need be played with. Paradigm alteration in a way of improvement, of building- not of destruction. How, you ask? Well, I’m still working that one out. All I’ve got regarding the matter in the areas of combat would be tunes and words. These songs, and rambles and verse. And the stories I’ve told, and still have yet to conspire.

Because I know the end comes. Seen and heard enough to believe that for certain. But I also know the only immortality worth having is in a legacy of some inspiration. Not necessarily one of outright hope, knowing how dangerous that can be. But something akin, at least a little, to the hopefulness for the futures. A piece of my mind and heart to grace some future soul, one that may not even be in existence yet, and propagate in there something at least vaguely like positivity. A letter of intent, left behind to help stay the course that those who came before have trusted to me, whether known or not.

And even with all that, the self emerges back in.

Wrote most of this before dinner. We have a tradition in my house, just the two of us. Or something that has been happening long enough to be like tradition. Once we sit down to eat, one of us selects a record and picks something to read while we dine. We do plenty of talking and connection throughout the day, so to just share the same otherwise occupation while acquiring sustenance bestows the familial flow that serves us best. Her and I.

I picked the record, probably should have been knowing better about it before touching the needle to groove.

And just like that, side two.

     All that resolution, in a moment, subdued. A particular tune, on that particular record. All while being engaged in a novel I would have likely never read without the recommendation that brought it to my attention. Welled up in an instant, feeling dumb and younger while simultaneously feeling old and road worn. Those thoughts, so many of those felt in some form at the start of the day, stampeding back before my defenses. Looking up, eyes fixed upon my own reflected back in the kitchen window, and the darkened sky beyond.

Realizing the weight of it all when I turned to see my progeny gazing back at me, that empathy dressed upon her face. Eyes not unlike my own, resting in a face that looks more and more like her mother each day. A surreal bookend to the emotional flashing of my life thus far, inspired by a melody and verse shared with me so long ago. And still so alive, somehow.

So, I brought a smile about, and apologized again, for my lost mind in ways she may not yet understand, though those days grow less and less with each march forward.

Telling some tale of having to check something outside while the little one cleaned her plate and readied to return to her mother’s house, I stepped out to fix upon the last light clinging, doomed and desperate to the horizon that spares it no mercy. Filled my lungs with the air I’m lucky enough to still be breathing. And from your narrator, a sigh. Heavy and vast, yet miniscule in all the turning worlds in a swirling galaxy.

And back in, they go. Those emotions stained in both nostalgia and potential. Until the next best chance for them to make their escape. Or until I can harvest them for something better. Something useful, beyond myself.

But to not leave on what could easily be perceived as a bummer, I’ll share this with you. While working on the early bits of this ramble, my daughter was reading a magazine the room over. A kids’ rag, so it regularly has jokes within its confines.

‘Hey, Dad, what do you get when you cross an angry sheep with an angry cow?’

‘I don’t know, what?’

‘Something in a baaaad moooood.’

I laughed so hard, I likely sounded insane. Not that she isn’t used to her father being on the peculiar side, especially when compared to the parents of her peers. But I laughed hard and heart, and honest.

It’s as though she knew exactly what I needed. And she’s a keen enough kid. Might be that she told me that one on purpose. As would certainly be in her heart to do.