Good morning to all. I hope your weekend was glorious, although that would really be something, wouldn't it? I mean, glory is rare, I think. Nevertheless, it is my hope that each of you experienced rapture and glory this weekend. If not, I hope at least that the positives outweighed the negatives, something that rarely happens at the subatomic level.
I do have a point for the day, something that occurred to me recently while flipping (figuratively) through channels on the television. Before I get to that point, however, I would like to clarify briefly a couple of ideas about a couple of posts I have made lately. I do this not because I imagine my posts to be serious or worthy of commentary, but because a few have asked questions, both online and face-to-face, about them.
Regarding my post "It's About the Music", in which I describe my plans for a radio show in which people write, compose, produce and market an album in thirty minutes, I should point out the following fact: It's completely false. It was meant to be a joke or a parody about a man with great enthusiasm for a phenomenally terrible idea. I have often been accused of being so soft in my satire, so slight, that it is incomprehensible and indistinguishable from truth and sincerity. I always feel a twinge of remorse when some kind soul encourages me and wishes me well in response to some parody I've written.
Secondly and finally, I would like to respond to some notions about my poem "If We Were Ethnic". It is a very shallow, very simple poem, quite innocent and light-hearted. It is saying nothing sideways and has, for me, no deeper implications. It is not trying to imply ironically that "plain white" culture (whatever, if anything, that might be) is just as rich as any other culture. It's absolutely not trying to make fun of any other culture. The word "ethnic" is not a pejorative word in my vocabulary, and if it offends anyone I apologize for the offense. The poem is simply the expression of a person, we'll say me, who considers himself to be a little culturally plain and believes it would be nice to belong to some older and "more exotic" culture. That's all it is, just a passing thought (most of what I write occurs to me and is written in a span of ten minutes or less).
Enough of that. If you've read this far, I am grateful. Now we come to the post proper.
Did you ever wonder what it would be like to be the farmer that Kevin Costner played in the movie Field of Dreams? Me neither. Were I that farmer, though, I'd sit on that big, beautiful porch and look out at the corn fields in the early morning and in the evening. The "not another soul in sight" factor would thrill me to no end. It's very difficult, in our society, to be in a place where you can't see another person anywhere. Most places like that in our society are very small and have toilet paper rolls attached to the wall. That's why, were I that farmer, when that line of cars appeared at the end of the movie to come watch the game, I'd have plowed me under some baseball diamond, if you catch my meaning. "Nothing to see here, folks. We're all wearing shoes and replanting corn on this non-athletic-field-having corn farm. Get the hell off of my property. If you come, I ain't building it. No we don't have a bathroom, but we've got a shotgun." It's not that I don't enjoy people, I really do, but places of solitude have to be cherished and preserved.
I'm just sayin' is all.
Later. Love.
P.S. - I posted a very short story on my cogito writing site. It's called What Happened to Barry?. Check it out, if you'd like. Thanks for stopping by.
