On Tolerating Imperfection.

I just read my last post again (When White is Winning.) Who wrote it, I wonder, because it’s terrible. I’m tempted to think that it wasn’t me because it’s not my style at all. It isn’t a writer’s writing, but the inept scribbling of a prep school essayist who’s taking his first teetering steps at beginning the process of becoming a writer.

But I suppose it must have been me, so where was my mind at the time? Am I entering the seventh age and becoming a child again? I don’t know, but I need to try harder to get back up to speed.

And the question arises: should I take it down? No, I don’t think so. If my ramblings are to serve as a portrait – and what else can they be? – then I must accede to Cromwell’s philosophy and insist that it should be painted warts and all. Anything other would be less than authentic. And when all you have to offer is your authenticity, you don’t have much choice.