What most frustrates me is that there is no one who can really empathize with me. This is not because I don’t have friends (I don’t have friends but this is not the reason), but because empathy is just an illusion. No one can ever feel fully what another feels. This is because we all have cognitive walls. A smidgeon of empathy would do right now, but unfortunately, smidgeon seems to be lacking.
I’ve never had any luck in getting awards, grants, or accolades. And I have not made it as a writer. My sister once told me that this would be an impossibility and I now am conceding that she was right. 35 grants were given out and there were 450 applicants, so the odds were not in my favor. However, the odds were in favor of 35 people, so that says something. The odds of getting killed in a plane crash are even less than getting one of these coveted grants. Why then am I convinced each and every time I get on a plane that it’s going to be curtains for me?
I won’t apply again for one of these grants. However, I will fly again. Quite clearly, the work and effort isn’t worth it. Best to blithely put this one behind me and just forget about it.
What this all comes down to is a single question, and this is, what really is the meaning of life? I often think of my friend and former teacher, Wendy Bishop, who died before her 60th birthday. She was a terrifically hard worker and made a name for herself in the field of composition and rhetoric. I’m not sure her work was so stellar that it will endure the test of time. That’s the trick, to produce prose that will be valued 2-3 generations from now.
The grant would have helped me achieve this. I’m glad we are going into spring and not winter. Today, when I was riding, I felt the heat of the sun on my back. Guess it’s about time.
Next: 128. 5/8/18: Our Horsey Health Care Professionals