AN ENDING INSPIRES A BEGINNING

 When will this war be over? the people lament in frustration. In my readings of the Civil War and WWI this was a constant cry from both sides. The death and destruction was non-ending and for many there was no hope that the end was in sight.

With the total officially eclipsing 230,000 deaths and more than nine million reported cases, and thousands of more deaths and millions of more cases predicted, when will this war end is a hollow cry. There is no light at the end of the tunnel as daily cases reach all-time highs, an anticipated 100,000 a day a dire reality in the near future. And we're only talking about the United States.

When Abraham Lincoln was president during the Civil War, he was pulling out his hair because he couldn't find a competent general to lead the Union troops. He relieved almost a half dozen generals of their duties before he settled on Ulysses Grant. "He's a drunk!" complained his advisors. "Then send a bottle of his favorite whiskey to all my other generals because that son-of-a-bitch fights," answered Lincoln who was a literary giant.

(For the record, those weren't Lincolns exact words, but they are similar. Perhaps I'll google the precise quotation, but as someone who mixes fact with fiction without a second thought, accuracy oftentimes isn't important to me.) 

We are at war and all our lives are at stake. We keep asking, "Where is the general who is going to lead us to victory? Where is the general who is going to vanquish this lethal and merciless foe?" It certainly isn't Trump. He talks the talk that is a bold-faced lie. Rather than walking the walk, he runs in the opposite direction. If he had been president instead of Lincoln, we in Texas would be living in the Confederate States of America.

As much as our fellow citizens are yearning for an end to the bloodshed, we writers, journalists, bloggers or sold-out hacks--our critics can label us with any description that pleases them--can't wait for November 3rd. Though there may be unresolved national and state results, the local elections come to an emphatic stop. The winners and losers will be nursing hangovers November 4th in celebration or lamentation, but it will be over.

I'm tired. For someone who is bored easily, this election coverage epitomizes a draining monotony, but I made commitments and I'm keeping my word until the polls permanently close. I've been running a marathon. With the finish line in sight, why wouldn't I culminate my efforts with a final sprint! And everything I write is subject matter for my inevitable masterpiece, The Coronavirus Chronicles. You can't have a mesmerizing masterpiece if you don't have an ending that is nothing less than memorable.

But my weariness owes its genesis to a number of other factors. These elections are the straw that broke the camel's back. I have all the articles I need to make my final statement about Brownsville. After 43 years of continual coverage of my adopted hometown, there will be nothing more I will have to say when I finish The Coronavirus Chronicles. It is time to hand the baton to others who will easily fill the void I leave. I feel that in the wake of chasing my tail for so many decades, I want to pursue an apparition into the darkening horizon.

I turned 20, then 30, then 40, then 50 and then 60 without experiencing any trauma, but there is an uneasiness invading my mental state about turning 70. I am no longer young. In Spanish parlance, I am officially a "ruco" and there's little I can do to alter that reality although a change in my lifestyle, physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually, might fool blind women into thinking that I'm "only" 65, maybe 60 although whenever I climb a bus, drivers never question if I'm a senior citizen when I pay half fare.

I am not going to surrender in meeting my responsibilities as a Brownsville citizen as long as I reside here and I will post on my blog and Facebook (more literary, less news worthy), but I'm retreating from engaging in battle after battle. There comes a point when you have to retire gracefully from the stage and pursue your own individual and unique visions. I may metamorphose into a modern Don Quijote dueling windmills. I will be content to sit on the patio and write about the mocking birds hopping from limb to limb before launching themselves into a kamikaze dive and attacking my dogs slinking around the backyard in dazed circles.

During the last half year, I have averaged eight hours diurnally pontificating about the elections from the presidency to the BISD school board. It has been a worthy endeavor because the objective of realizing The Coronavirus Chronicles is worth the commitment, but I'm exhausted physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. I relish the bullshit, but it's time to flush the toilet.

November 4th will require another eight-hour day explaining the results, but the next day everything changes. I will bid adieu to the past and embrace the present and future. I will not abandon my writing. Au contraire, I intend to write more copiously. Editing The Coronavirus Chronicles will be a monumental task but an invigorating one. It will also require additional stories to fill in the gaps to better set the stage in the memoir. I will infinitely amuse myself piecing together this tome picking and choosing from the more than 700 pieces I will have penned as I complete my final product.

But there is a part of my life that requires unapologetic selfishness. As I have uttered many times, if I am happy, then those who rotate around me will feel the warmth of my sun. There are the basics: I've been hitting the weights regularly, but I need more cardio. I need to lose 25 pounds and put reduce my beer belly as well as lower my blood pressure and cholesterol numbers. 

There is my present COPD challenge. I am in the hands of a specialist. I am using a pair of inhalers as part of a two-prong strategy as well as ingesting an antibiotic to cure infections in my lungs. I have taken an addition blood test as well as further X-rays. I meet with the physician on election Tuesday. I'm hoping for multiple glad tidings: I'm on the road to a manageable recovery and Biden has triumphed. If I fail on both fronts, I will have to deal with the cards that I have been dealt. It's an inevitable consequence of life.

Besides the health concerns that resolved contribute to physical, mental, emotional and spiritual tranquility, I have to dedicate myself with greater enthusiasm to playing the guitar, improving my tennis game, mastering as much as possible Portuguese and French with a dash of Italian and Latin for ostentation without abandoning my Spanish readings, and more walking with an occasional quarter mile trot as an interval.

I have my family responsibilities, which bring me joy, but I have to delve into the mystery and mystique that is me and put all these insights and inspirations to paper. Or on the screen. I utilize both. The scary prospect about 70 is that in a decade I will be 80. Eighty is the end of all pretensions about who you are and what you soon will be. 

The elections will be over in four days. At their conclusion, I embark on a new beginning. In the meantime, I remain at ringside recording the final rounds as the showdowns turn into brawls.