Feeling more than a bit something or other — off my game. In the past three years:
1. Post-Boston Marathon shootout, lockdown, house-to-house search, capture here in my small town.
2. Adult son C. in Paris when Charlie Hebdo massacre takes place. He joins in the protest demonstration.
3. C. back in Paris (he spends a fair amount of time there) and looking forward to concert by San Fran acquaintances at Bataclan. Avoids massacre there because of totally random sudden change of plans. His local cafe was one of those shot up.
4. Last weekend, adult son D. is in Turkey on a business trip when suicide bomber blows himself up a couple of blocks from his Istanbul hotel — he won’t tell us how close it actually was.
All 2nd or 3rd hand and we are all safe and sound. In the face of so much death and destruction it feels awkward, almost voyeuristic, to complain about feeling shaken. And yet, there is some sort of cumulative effect.
Among other things, I am almost at a loss to weigh the logic of my ideas and opinions about Brussels. I don’t like being my own guinea pig as I veer between reason and emotion; between, at the extremes, what motivates followers of Bernie and followers of Trump.