Of course, my thoughts on this matter run deeper than the mere mention appearing in the above opening paragraph. But this is not the proper venue for elaboration. In fact, there is only one form of expression that I know of that is suitable for this potentially embarrassing or possibly hurtful bit of questionable exposition, and that is within a supposedly fictional narrative.
Oh for pity's sake!
I do indeed whine and whimper my coward's way through this temporary term of biological life. A writer? An author? Me?
. . .
Yesterday's mail yielded up to me a book I had ordered five days ago from one of Amazon.com's used book vendors, a soft-cover novel that I had purchased online for three dollars plus shipping and handling. The book's title is Going After Cacciato, written by Tim O'Brien and (endorsed?) suggested in passing by my friend Anthony V. Toscano --and thus became a must-read in my own mind.
Since I finished a re-reading of Cormac McCarthy's Child of God last night I will begin my first reading of Going After Cacciato tonight in bed before going to sleep.
. . .
Mike and JoAnn, those two beloved workaholics, are out playing golf, finally relaxing on this beautiful early Saturday morning in Tucson and Eva is sleeping in boneless repose on the carpet in the front parlor so I am alone here in front of my computer terminal with my always roiling thoughts tumbling madly around inside the mysterious something that I choose to call my mind.
Is it apparent to you that I am typing down words as they occur to me without benefit of a censor? A first draft, as it were? That's exactly what I am doing. Believe it or not.
"So what?" you might ask.
I have no answer.
None is needed.
(Am I really going to post this piece of drivel?)