The House that Rock Built. The Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland. That's my destination this morning. My wife is the godmother of a newborn little girl. The family is in Cleveland, so we're going to make a day trip out of it and check out a few sites. I'll try to post some pictures tomorrow.
Of course, blogging will be light. It's been a rough summer, travel-wise. Every weekend except one from mid-June to mid-August requires me to travel at least three hours (one way). And the one weekend I didn't have to travel? I had out-of-town company. Combine this with a busy summer at the office, and it's a wonder I blog at all. It's a wonder I do anything. I've scarcely read anything, and I've written nothing.
At one point in my life, I read and read and read: philosophy, theology, history, literature. I grappled with Aquinas and Pascal. I bought the 54-volume Great Books series and figured I would read it by age 40. Now, all that's gone, and I'm reminded of George Santayana's poem about the scholarly life and marriage:
I cannot part from what I prize
For all I prize is in my head;
My fancies are the fields and skies
I will not change till I am dead,
Unless indeed I lose my wits
Or (what is much the same thing) wed.
Am I complaining? Perhaps. Am I unhappy? I don't think so. Am I resigned? For the most part, but it's a melancholy kind of resignation. Thing is, each individual event is fine: I like a family vacation, I like to attend weddings, I'm happy to make today's trip to Cleveland. I enjoy them all: individually. But grouped together, coming rapid-fire, knowing a busy Fall sports season looms? That's a different matter. In this, all the activity is like a case of beer. Each beer is a good thing, but taken together, rapid-fire? That's a different matter.
