Literary theorists of fifty years ago would have had a field-day with the blogosphere. Or not. I say not because of the distinct disassociation from general society that literary critics seem to have upheld over the years. Camille Paglia being a refreshing exception.
It is a bored Sunday evening and I wish I could accept it with as much resignation as my dogs.
Lately I've had to accept the end of many things. The ends of certain eras and the end of friendships coupled with the pesky new beginnings that seem to arise, to push from the ashes.
All of this is incoherent ramblings to be read by no one, yet I put it in a place accessible by all. What you don't know won't hurt you.
The season is changing and it reminds me of death. But wait. Let's not be sad. I mean, of course, the beautiful things about death, about putting things to rest that really should be put down, forgotten, filed away.
This fall I am clearing the air. The arena, as it were. Come loneliness, come all. If you never really knew how to relate, who knew? If you weren't kidding when you kidded, then it's all the same. Life and death. Endings and beginnings.
So I will go now to write songs while there is solitude, while there is absence. I will revisit all the indulgent loneliness of a younger life and come up gasping for fresh air, but with fresh inspiration.
