Ezines

Offerings!

Laughing Sun
C/Oasis

---

Original Work! 

Political Meditations
Billboard
Current events

Resources!

Classifieds
Jobs!

So the Poet of His Dreams wanders around and thinks he's a wise guy: He cuts epitaphs into the trunks of old oak trees: Quickest way to Hell is to destroy Memory. Life sad, short, and tragic for all the kind and masterful rationalizations. Trust the soul, question the nation. Don't go after fame but manifest true nature. Theories are useless in explaining anything other than their own existence as theories. While it's no good to live in the past, it's no good to kowtow to nonsense. Easy explanation for any malaise is subterfuge. Who did I invite? Among them all who is it who has come to enlarge my spirit? What good is it to leave the misery of one circle and enter the misery of another?

A Puritan's sort of guilt overtakes the writer who writes primarily "on himself." But, finally, it is simply an aspect of self not yet known, struggling to be known. A voice, then, as authentic, perhaps more authentic than the priest he listened to on TV. The seed of the voice is at least as authentic he thinks and goes back to his deeds. This novel he thought. This novel, now, is a kind of novel of manners depicting a variety of levels abundant and mingling in good old American style. "Let them see who they live with!" That is one spirit in youth. He decides it will be left open-ended as to whether the rose wilts or blooms.

Redeemed by love, the rose blooms. Suffocated in disillusionment, the rose wilts.