At the end of the day, I have to wonder why I put what day it was so completely out of my mind? On Wednesday, I knew what Thursday was. And I thought about it. Then I got up on Thursday, and forgot, even when I heard my favorite rock and roll radio station play the Byrds' version of Chimes of Freedom. Later on Thursday, I remembered. I remembered. How the hell, could I have forgotten?
I sat here for a great part of the evening, trying to figure out what it was that made me forget, what it was that dulled my feelings when I did remember. I tried to write about it.
That didn't work.
Everything I wrote was crap. Pompous crap. I erased every damned paragraph because they stank at explaining it to myself, much less to anyone else. Instead, I'm watching a documentary on Pete Seeger. It seems a good way to remember, and a better way to honor the people who only live in those memories.