Today I am having a bout of Abraham Lincoln's lifelong problem, as in, woeful, mournful melancholy. I don't know what has brought this bout on, other than the little annoying details of this hell I'm living.Maybe it's a new book I'm reading that has brought on the woeful, mournful melancholy. The Queen of Wink sent me a book called Ghost Rider: Travels On The Healing Road by Neil Peart.
Neil Peart was the drummer in Canada's most successful rock band. Rush. I'm not sure if I remember Rush or not. Apparently they were quite popular. Recently I found I did not know who Boz Scaggs is. I'm not much of a music aficionado, apparently.
In the course of a year, Neil Peart lost his daughter in a car wreck and his wife to cancer. This had him totally wiped out. After a year, he willed himself to hit the road on his big motorbike. The book is the story of his coming back to life during the course of thousands of miles of motorbiking. So far, I've ridden with him from eastern Canada to Alaska.
I've never ever wanted to ride a motorbike. But, now I'm thinking it seems like something I might like. I am very susceptible to random input altering my pre-conceived notions, apparently.
I was in the pool, again, before the sun lit the place up, this morning. Swimming did nothing to lighten my melancholy mood.
Due to it being almost 11 in the morning, and me not blogging, I've gotten the regular "are you all right" messages. So, I thought I'd blog about how I'm not all right, to let those who are concerned about my "rightness," know that I'm all right.
I love writing convoluted sentences.













