By Lee Waites
It's an angry day for me. I should be enjoying the beautiful weather outside. I should be happy at the success of the paper, the things we've been able to do with no money, and no cliquish connections, no large advertising budget.
I worry. I watch the cloud of complacency settle time and time again over Birmingham, to be stirred slightly at punctuated intervals, then settle again. There is so much to do.
Motivation is hard on an angry day. I could be motivated to cuss. I could be motivated to give up and drive away. I could be motivated to do all the things that in doing would kill the things that need.
Complaining and bitching and moaning. It's all the same worms wiggling in the same old dirt. That's fine too. But I feel the need to stretch my legs and get to walking.
Abstract question: Are we going to do it all again and again?
Milquetoast answer: Define " it."
It's hard to see. The physical intrinsic.
Sundays are wonderful. Pain, humiliation, suffering, angst, worry, wait to sneak out for some time in the jail-yard sun.
That's why it hurts me to watch you. For a time they are my eyes, my arrogance.
Milquetoast answer: Define " we."