Saturday, January 10, 2026

Broken Things

 

Note: The above is from 18 years ago, when I used to try and water paint if I was upset.

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Yesterday afternoon, I broke something. I knocked it over and it cracked.

That’s the third time in a month that I’ve done something like that, which is extremely unusual for me. It’s disconcerting.

I told my daughter and she said, “That’s the sort of thing you’re supposed to keep track of. You know, being butter-fingered.”

She meant to write it down. She meant the Parkinson’s.

As I looked online for how much replacements for these three items would cost, it occurred to me that maybe I’ll just try to live without replacing them for a while. Maybe until next month at least.

Then I realized that I was much more upset than I should be. Why the deep sense of angst?

It’s not being butter-fingered, whatever that is. It’s not about the Parkinson’s. It’s not really about me at all. You only need to scan the following set of headlines to understand the root of my discontent and why it goes way beyond the things I have broken. 

As usual, Bob Dylan said it best.

Broken lines, broken strings
Broken threads, broken springs
Broken idols, broken heads
People sleeping in broken beds
Ain’t no use jiving, ain’t no use joking
Everything is broken.

HEADLINES:

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