I did write a post earlier. It was one of the longest I’ve
written for quite some time. It was serious, rational, well reasoned and even
provocative. It could be said that it was a good post, but I decided to save it
and come back to it later because I thought it needed editing. When I did come
back to it… pouf . It didn’t interest
me any more. The story was on a different page than the one I’m on now and it
suddenly seemed too trivial to engage so much as a flea with insomnia.
Imagine you’re reading a story in a comic book. It’s about
some intrepid hero with a firm jaw and eyes of steel who is piloting a battle
cruiser in the war against the Venusians. And then you turn the page and read
another story about an explorer deep in the jungles of Sumatra, warding off the
heat, the flies and the anacondas who want to swallow him whole, while he is going
through hell searching for the fabled lost city of Buggabugga. Dan Dare has now become
yesterday’s news because the current page is the only current reality.
That’s how it is when you’re a recluse lacking any
geographically close connections with whom you can sit over a cup of coffee or a
glass of whisky or a plate of spaghetti Bolognese, talking endlessly of things shallow
and profound with equal fervour while you gradually explore every aspect of
their being. Life becomes a comic book, with every turn of the page bringing a
different shade of perception to the question of what matters and what doesn’t.
Today is Mel’s birthday, by the way. If anyone wishes to
send felicitations I will gladly pass them on. She’s still of an age where
felicitations are appropriate. I’ve reached the point where commiserations are
more in order.
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