A bit of heavy blogging elsewhere, a bit of heavy business,
a year of uncertainty, not that previous years were certain.
I like these ruins, monuments to our best laid plans,
though I have a few too many of them - books I meant to write,
projects I meant to do, bits and shards of preparation
laying about as testament to over-optimistic folly.
What writing will survive 100 years from now?
What are the memorable texts from the last 10?
All these bloggy words - will there be anything of eternity?
Can a Shakespeare or Faulkner endure and prevail in this medium?
Will there a dog named Lion that bashes his head against the door,
mercilessly, unceasingly, intent on bringing down the largest of prey,
or will we be left with mini-heroes, temporal, fleeting, mini-inspiring?
Have we ever suffered periods without greatness, mini-men
flittering along in mediocre garb to mediocre results?
Will we be more than boys with new toys, dangerous dangerous toys?
Will we be ever in awe of our promise, too overwhelmed to embrace it,
or too self-enthralled to remind ourselves of where we should be going?
I see I have 1 reader left. That's poetic - perhaps a Sancho Panza to my Don Quixote,
or perhaps I'm the one riding the mule, forgetting my place yet again.
Saddle up, on to the next test of courage, the next tavern with its draughts and whimsies.
My Dulcinea awaits.