Monday, September 30, 2019


Writing requires friction -- point A in tandem with or juxtaposed to point B. But where the sense of friction is lost, so the desire/drive to write also seems to dwindle.

Every morning, of late, I continue to scan the news wires -- a very old habit. But the sense of friction seems somehow to have dwindled and where once any topic could stir my verbal somersaults, now the excitement or interest appears to have run out of helium.

There is the impeachment hoo-rah about Donald Trump. British Prime Minister Boris Johnson is in hot water as he tries to lead Britain away from its participation in the European Union. And who knows what sigh of relief that other oligarch, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu is breathing a sigh of relief that the world is focused on those troubled politicians and not on the fact that he is, or seriously might be, in judicial hot water. And then there is health care, wealth disparity, environment ... and the list rolls on, each item positing its mirror image and each more complex than my latter-day 'mind' can or will care about.

There was a time when I could write about anything. Now, nothing much seems worth writing about. It's age, I suppose, but it's also odd. Nowadays, I flow back to some earlier time ... and fly up my own reminiscing asshole ... and ... as it seems ... disappear.

"Form follows function" -- a useful observation that floats like a water drop in a space capsule. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." Another one.  How does a threshing machine work? I had to look that one up. A technician is promised today ... someone who will straighten out the phone system which is on the fritz.

My wife and I drove into the hills yesterday. Leaves are changing, but I've forgotten the order ... is it green to yellow to red to brown or green to yellow to brown to red ... anyway, fall is on the way. Or, as CBS newsman Walter Cronkite once observed, "News isn't about how many cats did not get up on the garage roof."

Flying up my own reminiscing asshole ... smooth as dish soap. In the sixth, seventh and eighth grade, I carried a sheath knife with at least an eight-inch blade. No one thought anything of it -- they carried similar hardware ... it was mainly for cutting the string around bales of hay that needed to be shaken out for the horses or cows. Nowadays, such a tool would probably induce some good and kindly person to shit an 'altruistic' brick.


  1. Please reminisce about your childhood, what it was like to have writer/scholar parents. Surely your lifelong urge to write has sprung in part from that.

  2. Seems that your idea of writing needs to be examined.

    “There was a time when I could write about anything. Now, nothing much seems worth writing about.”

    The first statement, while expressing confidence at first glance, really reeks of the superficiality associated with most daily news writing — on top of the issues of the day but with little in depth analysis. You've continued that short form in your blog. Regurgitating the news wires was a marketable skill but it has obvious limits. Less writing more research and thought may be worth your while.

    The second statement speaks to a lack of philosophical and moral perspective.

    It’s hard to believe that any relatively healthy person approaching 80 years old sees no societal issues worth researching and sharing comments on after considering the implications to his or herself, family and community.

    Whatever. You’ll figure it out. Or not.

    May be there’s a pill.

    Until next visit.