Or, there and back again …

Dear readers: It has been a long time since my last confession (i.e., entry) … oops, sorry, wrong forum.

I am finding it difficult to carve out time to make any sort of meaningful entries in this journal. Perhaps it is true that when you have a life, you don’t need art. After all, to paraphrase Stanislavski, the stage, the arts, and all that is merely an imitation of life. If you have the genuine article, then there is no need to fabricate alternatives. Or perhaps that is all just bullshit. Is it that my busyness is that consuming, that I don’t have time to sit and reflect upon it, or that I find myself slowly but surely sinking into a state where even grasping at coherent, intelligent thoughts that can be conveyed in sentences is becoming a chore?

Truthfully, I have to state quite bluntly that the only thing that being an intellectual has ever done for me is to get me in serious life-threatening situations (most of those self-imposed due to the self-medication that was required once I started seeing the big picture in Technicolor). Now, as my vices pathetically dwindle to a slow stream of cigarettes that must be smoked outside, under the carport, I wonder.

What exactly I wonder about is in question, I suppose. I do ponder why Republican candidates for the Senate think that my e-mail address is a good target for their non-inclusive, education-denying, class-identity, self-righteous and finger-pointing propaganda. I also wonder why there are so few heterosexual, non-polygamist male pagans. Something I also debate, with myself, is that there seems to be no virtual alternative to the literati coffeeshop, where one can share Poetry, thoughts on the intrusion of chaos theory into the entrophy that is American life, observations on Music and so on. Or maybe that is just my perception.

I am immersed right now in reading Collected Fictions, by the Argentine Jorge Luis Borges. He is one of my favorite authors of all time — it almost makes me want to revisit all the Spanish I learned in high school so I can read, understand and appreciate him in his original language. I have known a couple of Argentinians in my life, and they seemed to me to be a people with a very diverse set of interests. Borges, of course, is no exception to that generalization, and he constantly refers to sources that I also have interest in – the Sufis, Taoism, etc. I would have to say that Borges and Henry Miller are my two greatest literary heroes at the moment. Whatever that means.

More later, one can only suppose …

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