Once again, I find myself in mind of the day’s observance; I’ve tended to be so, as demonstrated here, here, here, and here. Once again, I’ve got a spin-off of a show years into syndication to air. Once again, I reflect upon the circumstances of the world in which I live and which gave rise to me. And once again, I question things, knowing that the world that is is not the world that ought to be and that we are not much if any closer to it than we have been even so recently as a year ago.

It’s a broad “we,” to be sure. I know that no few will seek to exempt themselves from it, claiming that the lives they live are exactly those that ought to be lived–and that, indeed, the lives of all who live are what they deserve. I know there are many who look about and see that things are good, or that they are at least moving in ways that tend toward the good. I know there are many who hope for more of the same, who think that what is being done should be done and in greater measure than has yet been done. They have their reasons, I am sure. They think them good, or good enough, I am equally sure.

I wish I could be so convinced about anything.

But I doubt. I question. I grapple with ideas, finding that they do not sit so well with me as they seem to for others (even as I acknowledge that I see my own struggles more than I see those of others, having no real way to hide them from myself, while others can hide theirs from others’ eyes). Each holiday, each observance, each commemoration finds me in such mind, wondering about the whys and wondering what it is in me that makes me wonder about such things, what lack in me makes for so uneasy a time of accepting what so many others seem to take without question or comment other than the rote repetitions the rites seem to require.

It is said that those who fell in uniformed service did so to secure the freedom I have to think upon such things and to voice those thoughts, and that I and everybody else ought to be grateful for the same. I am not arguing the point. I do question, however, if those who can no longer speak for themselves would be pleased to have their voices invoked, though I know I will not have an answer that I can, myself, report after its achievement.

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While it is the case that I’ve posted to this webspace on Valentine’s Day before (here, here, and here), I’ve not yet given a post to the observance, as such. It seems a rare thing; I often post about holidays on holidays, about observances on observances, so to have missed one…it’s a rarity. And it’s something I need to correct.

There is no shortage of commentary on the event, of course, and no small amount of it critical, often pointedly so. As with so much in the world, it is and has been made crassly commercial, and I confess that I am not immune to its presentation as such; I know where and when I grew up, and I know that one of the accepted and encouraged ways of demonstrating affection for a person is spending money on that person, often on some consumable that will not last / will need to be replaced in short order. I also know that some of those for whom I care are similarly steeped in such ways, such that, even if they know intellectually that affection and expenditure do not necessarily correlate, their feelings would be hurt if I didn’t do at least a little something for them.

I care about them. I don’t want to hurt their feelings. (Find fault with me for it if you must, but if you must, I must assert unpleasantries about those who act with disregard towards those they claim to value.) So I do what I do.

So much said, though, I don’t think it’s wrong to set aside a day to celebrate romantic love. (Yes, I know there’s a lot of cultural focus on such things already; “Why do you need a day for something that’s praised all year?” is a question worth asking, to be sure. There are issues with setting anything as a norm, of course.) I also don’t think it’s wrong to set aside days to celebrate other forms of love, and there are many other such. The love I feel for my wife is not the same as the love I feel for my daughter is not the same as the love I feel for my mother is not the same as the love I feel for my brother is not the same as the love I feel for what of The Work that is still mine to do, et cetera. But “love” is a bad word, not just because it’s a four-letter one, but because the translation’s so…squishy; there’s too much that it covers for it to be as useful as it really could be.

And there’s less of it out in the world than it would be useful to have. But that’s another matter entirely.

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Maybe help me make today special for my Valentine?

In the United States, today is given over to the commemoration of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. It’s something on which I’ve remarked before, which is not necessarily a surprise; I’ve been blogging in this webspace for a while, now, and I’m getting old enough that things repeat themselves for me anymore. I stand by my remarks at that time; I am really not the person to comment extensively on the commemoration, and it is the case that we’re not near the ideal the man espoused, with many still kicking and screaming (and worse) as they are dragged, slowly, toward it.

Why, then, make note of the day as the day?

Because it is a set aside holiday, and as a day set aside, it invites contemplation. Though I did not succeed in my career intentions (yes, plural), I remain a person given to contemplation. A sanctioned opportunity for it is therefore welcome.

Because it is a public holiday, and I am a member of the public, and so there is an effect on me even if I am not the target audience for it.

Because it is an event that will receive and has received much attention, if I do not make at least some comment about it, there will be some concern about me that is not warranted. (This leaves aside the concerns that are warranted, of which there are a few.)

Because I have had more substantive comments upon it, it seems fitting to consider whether or not they still apply. They do, more’s the pity, but a scant few years is too short a time to redress great wrongs without great upset, and such upset is likely to have unintended consequences that will work to the ill of those who ought, instead, to be supported.

There is ill enough in the world without adding to it. Perhaps the commemoration will help. I do not think it will hurt, save those who probably ought to be hurt.

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I‘ve written before about the birthdays of people in my family, notably those of my wife, my mother and my father, and my maternal grandmother. I’ve mentioned my own and that of my daughter as they have approached and happened, as well, though I make more of others’ than of mine. It befits, then, that when it happens that my brother’s birthday coincides with one of my regular posting days, I would make some comment or another about it. And since today is such a day, I am making such a comment.

I’ve commented on my brother before, and at some length, if some years ago. It is the case that things have changed; he’s not with the same bands now as he was then, for example (I’m not certain if the Juantanamos or PlayIt4Ward are still going), although he is active with a few others (such as Mothership, Q, and Daniel RedCliff). Now, as was not true then, he is a father, and he is doing more than decently with my nephew; he also continues to be a good uncle to his niece my daughter. He does remain focused on his music more than most else in his life, however, and I remain somewhat envious of him that he can continue to pursue his passion in a way that is closed to me for mine. And I continue to love my little brother, as well.

So, happy birthday, Daniel Elliott! I’ll hope to see you for more than a few more of them!

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