I have reached the point
where I no longer savor
thoughts of expressing myself
with this indifferent keyboard
my words have lost their flavor
I struggled futilely for months
upgrade became a catastrophe
my blog became as my aging body
nothing works the same as before
my mountain top approaches
upon me are three anniversaries
the suddenness of my stroke
the passing of my lovely daughter
the beginning of this my blog
the end is fast coming into view
inflamed by need
I feel unacceptable
incensed by dread
confused by delusion
a hideous reflection
obsessed by mind
draining self seeking
completion outside self
I abhor my afflictions
overcome by them
for others affection
standing at a crossroads
which way should I go
for such affliction of both
from burning experiences
feeling pain and grief
my truth is something
I’m not able to accept
I was reading this James Bond book,
and right away
I realized that like most books,
it had too many words.
The plot was the same one that
all James Bond books have:
An evil person tries to blow up the world,
but James Bond kills him
and his henchmen
and makes love to several attractive women.
There, that’s it: 24 words.
But the guy who wrote the book
took *thousands* of words to say it.
Or consider “The Brothers Karamazov”,
by the famous Russian alcoholic
It’s about these two brothers who kill their father.
Or maybe only one of them kills the father.
It’s impossible to tell because
what they mostly do is talk
for nearly a thousand pages.
If all Russians talk
as much as the Karamazovs did,
I don’t see how they found time
to become a major world power.
I’m told that Dostoyevsky wrote
“The Brothers Karamazov” to raise
the question of whether there is a God.
So why didn’t he just come right out
and say: “Is there a God?
It sure beats the heck out of me.”
Other famous works could easily
have been summarized in a few words:
* “Moby Dick” — Don’t mess around
with large whales because they
symbolize nature and will kill you.
* “A Tale of Two Cities”
— French people are crazy.
— Dave Barry