While my weekend was typically quiet, I did have to spend a couple of hours with an attorney on this damned copyright suit. It is not only perplexing why a newspaper would sue its readers, rather than send the a “cease and desist” letter, even more confounding is the attorney it chose to do so: One who has a “bad” reputation in the Federal Court system and has, in fact, been dismissed from cases by Federal Judges.
And beyond that, I’ve been told that I’m probably the newspaper’s “best” resource in term of stories (most of which don’t include my clients) and knowledgeable sources for comment and quotation on other stories.
In any event, I told my attorney I have no intention of paying the paper anything. However, this issue, no matter what I do on a daily basis, remains somewhere in my mind…it is a distraction.
It was a typically hot weekend (“…old men talking about the weather”), and one during which I was typical, doing nothing, save trying to figure out why my second monitor isn’t working. How boring to discuss computer issues once again.
Life becomes so much less of an adventure as I age, yet there remain events or things that are “new” to me that occur on a daily basis. My Mother once told me that as a baby, virtually everything is “new,” and one of the unfortunate occurrences of growing older is that perception of freshness or new narrows remarkably.
Forgetting about personal events or activities, I think about those things national and international: There’s nothing really new. We’ve seen this economy before, I can recall when we’ve not been at war, fashions (and I’m certainly no expert here) don’t seem much different, perhaps just different colors…I could go on, but then I’m offering nothing new.
A blogger I follow spoke of his “dark despair,” then thought the characterization was redundant. This issue arises not because I believe that “dark” is simply an adjective for “despair,” which I believe has levels, but rather because I don’t feel “despair.”
I feel ennui and sometimes become jealous of the 30s in Paris and the ennui so often referred to by the artists and writers who lived there at the time. There’s no romance to my ennui. In that, I suppose I do despair.
