“A story was a form of telepathy. By means of inking symbols onto a page, she was able to send thoughts and feelings from her mind to her reader’s. It was a magical process, so commonplace that no one stopped to wonder at it.” ~ Ian McEwan
“To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it’s about, but the music the words make.” ~ Truman Capote
“The world is a hellish place, and bad writing is destroying the quality of our suffering.” ~ Tom Waits
Maybe it’s something I should have gotten used to years ago? Seems I am, at least this morning, at least to the cat, a secondary consideration. I’m not sure if I am okay with that. I’ve got an ego, and it needs to be exercised, or it will eventually strike out from it’s dark frumpy corner, from the exile to which I have cast it so discourteously. Best to keep it in sight because it ain’t goin’ away any time soon. What happened is that I reached over and turned down the thermostat on the space heater, because the rickety white noise was getting on my nerves; besides, it is almost warm enough for comfort. Rosie was lounging quite elegantly on the floor in front of the machine. In less than 30 seconds after I turned the thing off she was on my lap, plopped down pretty, and somehow owning the whole scene. I just reached over and turned it back on against the fast moving chill, and she is back down there on the floor. I rest my case. BTW, the chill moves way faster when the temperature outside is down in the single digits. But the scenery provided by this deep cold over lightly snowy landscapes is hard to beat. I mean, Summer is all lush and brimming with rich color, and some folks say that Winter is drab and bleak, as if bereft of color. What the hell are they looking at?! Hmmph. Maybe it is just nurture that makes it so for me, but I cherish the colors of Winter. The range of colors may be severely curtailed but it gives the chance for the colors that remain to strut their stuff, giving fully of what they have, unimpeded by their more flashy compadres. As for the nurture – my mom usta paints pictures of what my dad called “dead trees”. So called bleak landscapes appeal to me. Besides, they make coco and tea and brandy and stuff for these very occasions. Ain’t so bad. In spite of the very, honestly, most certainly, no shit, nature of the times in our country – speaking of bleak – I feel brimful with the currents that flow so strong from Mother Earth at the Winter Solstice. Tis sometimes called “The Birth of Light”. Has kind of a cozy feel to it, that name, don’tcha think? My gift from the modern world upon this sacred day (okay, so it’s really tomorrow) is to receive money from the Federal government. I’ve paid into the program for my whole working life, yet some folks call it degeneracy, handouts, or some other faux-libertartian horse shit. I say “faux-libertarian” because it don’t rightly seem to me that them judgmental folks have it right about they own selves. Dag nab it and WTF and stuff, I ain’t gonna git inta no political commentary this morning, not when the height of ignorance is poised to go even higher, all at the expense of those he is supposed to be serving, to whom he promised many things, in return for their payment in hatred and intolerance. Yeh, I’m pissed. Gotta go.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.