I Love To Write, So It Rarely

I Believe So Deeply In The Primacy Of Language, In Lifting Your Prose To The Highest Level You're Capable Of And Making Your Words Symphonic.

L.a. Burns, And So Many Other Cities Smolder, Waiting For The Hose That Will Flood Gasoline Over The Coals, And We Listen To Politicians Who Fuel Our Hate And Our Narrow Views And Tell Us It's Simply A Matter Of Getting Back To Basics While They Sit In Their Beachfront Properties And Listen To The Surf So They Won't Have To Hear The Screams Of The Drowning.

But I Often Think We Talk Way Too Much In This Society, That We Consider Verbalization A Panacea That It Very Often Is Not, And That We Turn A Blind Eye To The Sort Of Morbid Self-absorption That Becomes A Predictable By-product Of It.

Happiness Doesn't Lie In Conspicuous Consumption And The Relentless Amassing Of Useless Crap. Happiness Lies In The Person Sitting Beside You And Your Ability To Talk To Them. Happiness Is Clear-headed Human Interaction And Empathy. Happiness Is Home. And Home Is Not A House-home Is A Mythological Conceit. It Is A State Of Mind. A Place Of Communion And Unconditional Love. It Is Where, When You Cross Its Threshold, You Finally Feel At Peace.

The Ornament Of Beauty, Shakespeare Wrote, Is Suspect. And He Was Right. But Beauty Itself, Unadorned And Unaffected, Is Sacred, I Think, Worthy Of Our Awe And Our Loyalty.