It has been some time since I have blogged, oh dear. The gravitational hold of the cyberspace audience awaits my every word. I have become quite bored with Facebook and Twitter is ridiculous — see Coppola’s The Conversation. I find it strange that part of my cortex is telling me that too much time has passed since I have written another short essay. Of late I have begun to cut ties — to organizations, to others, and perhaps to Arizona. I am planning to move to Nevada if many things fall into place and I am working on making that so. I weary of the mindset here in this morgue called Green Valley. I am an urban man and the brain dead are everywhere, the condition of humanity, but, at least, let me have a good deli sandwich sitting across the way from an urban jerk.
Time is running out on this old man who has the spirit and mind of a psychological athlete. The marathon is into the last lap and I don’t hear the parade passing by, the fools waving pom poms or the culture which extols being politically correct. I read recently a few poems by Edward Field who got me all righteousl;y aggravated once again, his railing at the war ciminals — Cheney and Bush; at the pompous moral turpitude we present to the world — “Mission Accomplished,” indeed. And writing this blog is another one of those so-called “mandates” we self-impose upon ourselves. I may very well close down this shop, “Gone for Lunch” posted on the site’s doorway.
I have chosen of late to focus more on my writing and publishing what I have to say all the while reasonably cutting back on “pushing” my literary efforts. All is sand running through the hourglass. Thoreau said it best with lines that suggested each of us should “shave close,” to thin out our belongings as we near the end so when that difficult moment comes along, we have less to take away with us. And if you believe this only applies to a 68 year-old, let us stroll down the cemetery to the place where poor damn luck gives us the gravestone of Natasha Richardson. Perhaps the only real lesson in schools is to realize all instruction should be directed to comprehending our mortality. We may then consciously decide not to fritter away our lives in detail, Thoreau again. Recently a well-intended person inquired about my interest in death and I responded kindly that death is my brother and if I grasp that deeply I will live a better life. He looked at me with some grasp of what I told him. I am not being morbid, I am trying to squeeze the pips in the orange until they pop.
As all of the above was floating about within me, I was also working through many different short stories all related to the grim topic of the Holocaust. In that effort is life. In studying the Holocaust, in working it through, I become alive. Ask a survivor and he will tell you he or she loves life intensely. No one has to be sold on life. When you have your existence sandpapered in the camps, to have survived makes you want to sandpaper yourself in life. Within a week I had knocked out at least 5 short stories of varying lengths and quality. I am in the throes of creativity. I will spend months revising but that does not concern me now; for me revision is slow-making excellence, smoothing out the clay, retouching the color with oil on the painted hand. Delightful! Another book wends its way out from me. So, I resent even the slightest whisper of getting back to the blog.
I am too old for self-imposed assignments. This essay is an attempt to work through this nonsense that I have a commitment to you. Surely, I don’t. The blog serves only one purpose as I see it: not to sell myself, not to merchandise myself, not to intrigue you with my life, nor pose creative and existential riddles for you, nor hambone myself, nor juggle ideas, or hustle, or huckster my self, nor entertain you. The only reason I should ever sit down and write like this was stated in my very first blog — all my writing is a personal examination of my self and if you don’t care for it, try on another pair of shoes elsewhere. What I have to work on is breaking away from this “slavery” and write only when I will it. I will see you whenever, as I cut this tie to you as well. I am free, Oh, Lord, I am free. I am no longer the plantation or house slave.
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