Listening to: Dire Straits, Brothers in Arms, 1985
Have reached a moment of pause in the long slog to the end of my accounting marathon. I am currently waiting for a response from my accountant(s) regarding some “irreconcilable” differences between myself in my “accountant hat” versus the inscrutable journal which insists that I am $700 in the hole when the bank statement insists that I am $22k to the good.
I borrow from greater minds than mine as we all borrow from the Greatest in what we believe is “our” creativity. From David Warren this AM:
“Doctor Johnson said, “A man who writes … thinks himself wiser or wittier than the rest of mankind; he supposes that he can instruct or amuse them, and the publick to whom he appeals, must, after all, be the judges of his pretensions.”
But down here on Earth we footsoldiers slog through the mud of a battle whose outcome always looks doubtful, some of us sunk deeper than the waist. It is a trench warfare that feels as if it will go on forever.
A grandfather’s diaries come to mind: he at the bottom of Vimy Ridge, in a moment of sobriety, early in April, 1917; and “Jerry” at the top.
The task is simply to reverse these positions, a matter merely of dashing up the hill, under intense and steady hellfire. Yet sometimes the simplest operations may appear to be impossibly difficult, as in this case. It can be done, however, as grandpa and his illustrious (Canadian!) comrades were about to show.
There is oddly little emotion in his diary. It was just another day, facing death. If you make it, grand; and if they cut you down on your way up, hey. The view is anyway better in Eternity, and Glory is finally not of this world.”
How many of our grandfathers were there? How many of our grandfathers are still remembered for the duty and discipline they were experiencing and offering. How many are imitated in daily life in other than an abstract way?