Though presumably no great shock to those who know me, I am hanging the hat of blogging upon the hat-rack of blogging. No reason is given; no justification offered. No more do I care to dally away my idle time making rhyme and reason and pithy, pathetic joke of my typical mid-twenties American life. Time presses me to do something relevant. Like widwifery.
Looking back at what I've written on this blog, I feel that an appropriate description of my efforts can be neatly summed by these prophetic words:
A work of art? It has no invention; it has no order, system, sequence,
or result; it has no lifelikeness, no thrill, no stir, no seeming of
reality; its characters are confusedly drawn, and by their acts and
words they prove that they are not the sort of people the author
claims that they are; its humor is pathetic; its pathos is funny; its
conversations are -- oh! indescribable; its love-scenes odious; its
English a crime against the language.
Counting these out, what is left is Art. I think we must all admit that.
By the by, for those wishing to know how and what I am doing, turn your ear this way. I currently reside in Ohio, near that great, muddy river on a fine plot of 72 rolling acres. I run a small apiary and petting zoo with my lovely Peruvian wife, Aytahmo, who hears not and speaks poorly, for she is deaf. In my free time, I write children's books and practice the art of blacksmithing. Thrice a year, I participate in Civil War reenactments (Confederate, 59th Carolina division), of which I have received numerous awards (mostly plaques). Last week I tailored a suit for the governor of New Mexico, Bill Richardson, whom I consider a personal friend. All of what I just wrote is fiction, save for the part about Ohio. That is true.
And the Civil War thing.