See, sometimes I talk, sometimes I don't. I asked a poor fellow once, who patiently endured a rather content free stream of drivel of mine whether I talked to much. He said, "If you even it out, no." *perfect.* In those days I had more to talk about. I was living in Chicago, in one of those borderline areas where artists congregate. Those areas that are safe enough, but not yet expensive. The ones with the good bars and fun motorcycles. I was balancing inadequately on the nerve endings of an existence that had, like my occasional mind numbing loquaciousness, not too much substance.
But, as I recently said to a co-worker, whom I asked to do a favor which saved on trash produced, what's the point. This is where silence is the cat got my tongue. What's the point. As oil gushes into the gulf killing and killing, why worry about the small acts. Why conserve and be consciousness. *I'm not totally grandizing inarticulateness. There is something about disaster that silences. Silences the wetlands of Louisiana, for sure.* I feel like an aging trick or treater, waddling up to a particularly nice house, and the lights are turned out.
I need to get a motorcycle, and go camping.
*to enlarge the strip, click on it.*
