The Sacred and Profane

My family and I were in Iran when the Shah was deposed and Khomeni took power. We had to flee for our lives.

Jethro and his family were in Vietnam when the North Vietnamese took Saigon. They had to flee for their lives.

It's interesting to watch the history channel and see our lives intertwined with international events, but I fear it may also give one an exaggerated sense of one's place in history. Is it any wonder I strive so hard for a kind of depraved mediocrity?

The question is, what do Jethro and I do with those experiences? Somehow, I don't think we were thrown together just to bury them. I keep thinking there is a story that needs to be told, but I don't know how to tell it. Every time I try, I become accutely aware of my sex life or something comedic (or both). Why do I seek out the profane when there is something more to be said? It's not that I feel guilty, it's just that I feel pressure to do something more. There are so many pieces of me struggling to make it to the page, but winning the battle every time is the large-bosomed, foul-mouthed, pseudo-slut. I'm beginning to have a wee bit of contempt for her. She's just so pervasive.

That's all. It's time the meds. Not that I take them, but if I publish this (as I have been debating with myself for 10 minutes as to whether I should), I probably ought to.