There was a time not too long ago when a person could make sense of the world, when we didn’t wake from a fitful night of sleep to headlines about the avian flu or execs being gunned down on the streets of midtown or reports of subway immolations, when we weren’t wary on our commutes, when we didn’t go to a store or a club or a coffee shop (or anywhere really) worried about finding ourselves in the crosshairs of an armed shooter, when our democracy wasn’t comprised, when health care wasn’t an unaffordable conundrum, when the Times didn’t report endlessly about how bad drinking is for you, when the answer to life on Earth wasn’t life on Mars, when we worked for companies we respected and in the company of colleagues we trusted
Paul, I feel almost exactly the same with different life experiences but same frustrations and questions. I don’t want to fix a tractor (nor do I own one) but I’m proud that I can change my 90-year-old mother’s diaper correctly and that I can help her get through the day. At least Mitchell (my Sonny) is still alive and kicking and I can read a bit everyday. Thanks for sharing.
There’s a grief in this that isn’t about the past—it’s about the impossibility of locating oneself in the present. Not just culturally, but existentially. The ache isn’t for landlines or long lunches—it’s for coherence. For a world where doing good work meant something. Where identity wasn’t scattered across platforms. Where touch, conversation, and meaning weren’t mediated by performance.
You didn’t just write a lament—you named the fracture. And most people are too distracted or curated to admit they feel it.
Paul, You think and write. You fixed a tractor and play adult hockey. You have a wife who says you’ll make it to 80. You are in very good shape. P
Paul, I feel almost exactly the same with different life experiences but same frustrations and questions. I don’t want to fix a tractor (nor do I own one) but I’m proud that I can change my 90-year-old mother’s diaper correctly and that I can help her get through the day. At least Mitchell (my Sonny) is still alive and kicking and I can read a bit everyday. Thanks for sharing.
There’s a grief in this that isn’t about the past—it’s about the impossibility of locating oneself in the present. Not just culturally, but existentially. The ache isn’t for landlines or long lunches—it’s for coherence. For a world where doing good work meant something. Where identity wasn’t scattered across platforms. Where touch, conversation, and meaning weren’t mediated by performance.
You didn’t just write a lament—you named the fracture. And most people are too distracted or curated to admit they feel it.
Thank you for telling the truth out loud.
Schnitzel??