“Literature is strewn with the wreckage of those who have minded beyond reason the opinion of others.” ~ Virginia Woolf
“We who make stories know that we tell lies for a living. But they are good lies that say true things, and we owe it to our readers to build them as best we can. Because somewhere out there is someone who needs that story. Someone who will grow up with a different landscape, who without that story will be a different person. And who with that story may have hope, or wisdom, or kindness, or comfort. And that is why we write.” ~ Neil Gaiman
“Any writer worth his salt writes to please himself. It’s a self-exploratory operation that is endless. An exorcism of not necessarily his demon, but of his divine discontent.” ~ Harper Lee
The season is coming in slow, a slow-burn dramatic entry that feels good, it feels right; whole patterns of light and shadow, caressing the west slopes of the mountains. This is the land of light and shadow; where they dance, where they kindle dreams. Never forget that. Once you’ve been assimilated by the exceptional magick of this place there is no out. I mean, you can up and go, east or west; once you are in it you are in it for good. Here and now it is about 100 minutes before sunrise, but who’s counting, right? The coffee was too weak, but it is almost gone. I can make some more and do it right this time. I don’t know who . . . listen, it’s just me and the cat here, and she doesn’t have opposable thumbs. I confess. I was still half asleep. In fact I was so far half asleep that I didn’t even know which half it was. At the moment I think I’m dreaming. There are no more options in my tool box. I’ll have to work with what I have to work with. A couple of minor needs await me this day. They require a trip into Taos. Dang, I was hoping . . . oh, never mind. Gotta be done. Call them chores and get it over with. And all this while immersed in the writer continuum. I don’t know how this happened, but I’ve been entangled in this continuum for days, if not weeks now. One sure sign is that I have been finding myself frequently stroking my chin, sometimes while standing in spontaneous contemplation, gazing at something that likely is not even on most people’s subliminal radar; never mind their conscious attention. Like “look at the colorful expression from those trees. No, wait, I just had a text arrive on my iPhone!”. I don’t text or tweet, BTW. Luddite Neanderthal, whatever. I rarely get phone calls. My smart phone is mostly used to monitor the thrum of the 24/7 news cycle and lately I’ve been all WTF over the whole affair. It looks certain by now that the president is fixin to blow any minute. Who was it, Popeye? Was it him who had jets of steam blowin’ out his ears when he got riled? Whatever; it’s like that with the president. It won’t be pretty, but it will be good for your breathing. But I can’t be bothered today. In fact, I might just treat myself to breakfast out. One thing about turning 64 is that that simply living seems more and more like the way to go. Note that I chose the word ‘simply’ and not ‘simple’. Oh what a difference a ‘Y’ makes. For now, it is time to rouse the Hermit and get with it. Onward . . .
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.