Being mortal, I can only wait so long for everything to be ready and right. Eventually, one day soon, I'll just have to get started, ready or not. Perfection is always just around the corner, or so I've always thought. I've rounded many corners and remain resolutely imperfect. This less-than-ideal state of affairs might just have to suffice if ever I'm to get this show started. No sense waiting around to die. Tomorrow. Tomorrow and no longer. If perfection doesn't arrive by bedtime tonight, I'll bundle up my faults and flaws in a knapsack and hit the road at dawn. You're welcome to come along, but I make no promises. Doom and hope ride on my shoulders, whispering directions into my ear. I'll try to choose the right path, but I've gone astray before.
Roads and journeys make wonderful metaphors for life. Symbols and images, though. That's all they are. In reality, life is a broken escalator in a seedy mall on the bad side of town. This is no metaphor, mind you. This is what life really is. If you concentrate, you can feel the rubber handrail lurching and slipping as the mechanism struggles to get moving again. Scientists don't know who built the escalator, nor whether it's meant to go up or to go down, nor what lies at either end. All they know is that it's broken, probably a belt has snapped or slipped off. Philosophers argue the virtues of calling a repairman. Mystics scry the customer service phone number.
I think it was Mitch Hedberg, may he rest in peace, who observed that escalators can never break. They can only become stairs. "We apologize for the convenience."
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
