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My Uncle Monagall  By  W. Bruce Watson
 
– Did I ever tell you about my uncle Monagall? Do you remember him?

– You mean the one who was an actor in Monaco?

– Yeah, that’s him, but not an actor per se, more of a monologist–my monologist uncle Monagall from Monaco. Poor man, he was kind of crazy, you know.

– Yes. I remember that too. Maniacal in fact, wouldn’t you say?

– That’s him. Maniacal uncle Monagall, monologist from Monaco.

– Right. Most remembered for his fits of rage in public, I seem to recall.

– That’s right. Often beset by constables and led away in restraints.

– I remember that, maniacal uncle Monagall, monologist from Monaco, mangled and manacled. But despite this, he still had about him a somewhat regal air.

– Do you really think so?

– Yes. Always. Like he was a visiting king or monarch of some distant realm even as he was being dragged away by the police.

– Ahhh, what a guy! Maniacal uncle Monagall, monologist from Monaco, monarchical, mangled and manacled.

– Yeah. And one of his fits cost him an ear, as I recall.

– And the vision in one eye, too. Poor old Manny, my maniacal, monaural uncle Monagall from Monaco, mangled, manacled, monarchical monologist reduced to wearing a monocle.

– There you go.! Maniacal uncle Monagall, monocled, monarchical monologist from Monaco, mangled, manacled and monaural.

– A faithful and devoted husband to the end of his days. They don’t make them like that anymore.

– I agree! Monaural monogmist uncle Monagall, monocled, monarchical monologist from Monaco, maniacal, mangled and manacled. Yes. I remember your uncle Manny. Why do you ask?
 
 
 
 
 
The truth is, after much furrowing of brow, I can't think of anything to say by way of preface to my blog. Along the way I wondered what it's purpose might be and maybe I should say a few words about that and would, except that I don't know what its purpose is, or could be, or should be. I only know that my clock is winding down and I'm so desperate to have my mind known that I could just spit! Maybe my blog could be about that. But how depressing and pretentious that could be! But hold on a second, maybe not—my therapist commented the other day how in late adulthood (AKA elder years), one is forced to deal with the sense of loss, all the time, it's always there, and it's painful, it takes great faith to live on even though one knows it's going to end and that whatever they accomplish, if anything, is not going to matter all that much. How does one find meaning or a sense of fulfillment in life knowing that it’s coming to an end? Psychologists have not written much about this if anything. It's sort of an unexamined part of adult life. It takes a lot of self-discipline to function in spite of this sense of loss—it's so easy to give up on the constant struggle, on life. A lot of people do—drinking, TV, drugs, electrosex, So, if you'll bear with me, let us examine this unexamined part of adult life.
 
 
 
 
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