Father's Day
I think of things in the shower a lot. This morning in the shower I thought about my bad mood and the dream I'd had and it sort of formed into something I wanted to say here. Then I read the paper and realized it was Father's Day and the words congealed into a definite shape ...
It should really be Fathers' Day because it's about all fathers and not any one specific father, but I suppose there's an implied "your" in front of it.
... and then I just didn't do it. And now it's 11:11 (oh, hey, Armistice Day! We'll talk about that, and why it's not Veteran's Day or even Veterans' Day, some other time) and it ain't written.
The problem isn't that I got distracted -- all I did today was laundry and Studio resource taxonomy (doesn't that sound exciting? Maybe I'll explain what that means tomorrow), so there wasn't all that much to get distracted by.
No, the problem is I realized I just didn't want to write it. It's about my sister and my father and my ex-stepfather. It wasn't painful to contemplate or anything -- all those wounds healed over years ago -- but it was a case where I opened the can of worms, looked inside, and decided the worms were perfectly fine where they were.
Maybe next year. 19 June was my sister's birthday and is also the date of Ethel Rosenberg's star, and Father's Day is either then or very nearby, so my brain tends to go to this place every year about this time.
Not literally, though it'd be nice if there were a star named for her. It's a reference to a particular line in "Angels in America," and since I haven't yet reached a point where I can Dredge out "The Star of Hatred," you'll just have to go find it for yourself. It's when Ethel goes to visit Roy in the hospital the day he is disbarred, knowing he is about to die.
21 June 2026