20151110.0626

It is my father's birthday once again, something I have been reasonably good about noting in this webspace (see here, here, and here). It is a bit early, so I have not yet placed a call to him, but I will, and a card and a gift have been en route to him. What I noted last year remains true; I am lucky to have had such a father. Ms. 8 is lucky to have such a grandfather, and I look forward to her coming to learn that more fully. (She already knows to some extent. We have pictures. They are remarkably cute--and I do not use that term often.)

Even so, work continues. I have more to do on the freelance project; Ms. 8 did not take as long a nap yesterday as she usually does, and I was somewhat out of sorts, so not as much writing got done as should have. There is more grading for me to do, as well, and I will be attending the second in a series of workshops this afternoon (the Mrs. has arranged to be off from work so that I can go; I receive a stipend for my attendance). A couple of job applications need attention, as well, since I am still trying to find continuing employment; my visit in the area of Sherwood Cottage has been going on for a while, now, and I need to see about finding my way to a home yet to be determined. I try, of course, but the decision is not wholly--or even largely, in the event--up to me.

I had had ideas for where I would go with this, but I seem to have lost them. It is a thing that has happened before, a thing about which I am certain I have written before in this webspace, and it remains annoying. Fleeting thoughts that suggest themselves in whispers and vanish away before they can be fully seen and gathered together, given some semblance of substance and put where others might see them. I understand their reluctance, though; to be fixed in a medium is to be made unchanging and in effect ended, and that something would seek not to find its own end is sensible enough. I do not look forward to my own infixing, after all; I can hardly blame another who does not. But I perhaps do poorly to wax poetic in such a way, anthropomorphizing something that is already human in origin (and wondering, suddenly, about the gendering of even such a term, continuing to use the "anthro" as a gender-neutral term when 1) it is not and 2) somehow, the thoughts suggest themselves in women's voices, clear and quiet altos--and even that runs possibly into trouble as I ponder it further...).

But, yes, it is my father's birthday, and I hope he has a good time of it. I will call him later to harangue him about being yet more old, of course, but I am glad he is around for me to do it to him--and I hope for him to be so long.