.. and your old men shall dream dreams ….
I haven’t been writing much lately. I go through long spells where I just dontwanna. Moreover, I don’t hafta. Writing is a hobby to me. I am a dilettante at it. I wouldn’t mind being a world class writer with millions of spendable dollars, and being feted and pampered on world-wide tours and receiving accolades for my brilliance, but I don’t wish to work for it. So, that pretty much leaves me with little coffee posts peppered with the occasional rant.
As many of you know, I have a muse that is cranky and old. She dresses in a long ago style of a professional woman who has never updated her wardrobe. She is all business, yet still manages to be a bit coquettish. She would be a successful businesswoman if she were real. She is brutally honest, yet supportive. She is my foil, and will tell me what my supporters won’t. She fits me like a well-worn shirt that your woman keeps trying to throw away, but you just like the way it feels.
Quite frequently in my dialogues with her, I discover myself. I often don’t know what I believe until I have to defend it on the written page.
In this month of softening sunrises as autumn once again reminds us that there is a cycle of life, I don’t want truth. So I haven’t been chatting with her all that much. I want to sit out in the sun and build power plants in my head, or deftly maneuver a mega-yacht into its berth, or masterfully start a heavy-laden freight train on a steep grade, or even rescue a distressed damsel or two. I don’t want the give and take of dialogue. The Donald means nothing to me. Hillary is just another hack. Obama is a petty tyrant. The press corps are just political activists wearing a mantle they did not earn nor deserve.
The world has passed me by, leaving me in its dust. Like and old dog on the porch, I hardly raise an eyelid at the passing rumble of cars as a new generation of wage slaves try to extract meaning out of it all. I am now an impediment to their ambitions, not a player.
And it suits me fine.