|I could post a mysterious picture and not explain it one bit.|
I could muse about the poems of Bei Dao, as I am reading them and will review for Oyster Boy. I could tell you how he transformed moonlight into grains of wheat that were people.
I could bemoan Sunday's simultaneous uprising from tub and toilet that flowed into the one room in the house that has to be carpeted--and my life with dehumidfiers, fans, and ripped-up carpet propped on bottles to dry.
I could talk about my yesterday with boys of 14 at the Cooperstown Fun Park and the subsequent wakeover, not yet over, no, not yet over.
I could tell why, if you are a kid or a kid-hearted adult, you ought to read Leon Garfield's Smith.
I could assure you that my fortune cookie said that you, dearest of all readers, really ought to get close and personal with The Throne of Psyche. Because I certainly cannot sell my books door to door like the Fuller Brush Man and a certain Canadian poet, male, conveniently male. Because: poetry is good for the soul. And if you have no soul, poetry may fill that absence and give birth to something strange that eventually you are forced to call . . . a soul.
I could share good news wholly unrelated to the perils of old houses.
I could complain mightily about the high cost of multiple college educations, currently balanced on top of my middle-class head and pressing downdowndown.
I could shout into my computer, or at the modem which is currently on the fritz (an e-squatter, I do wonder whose network I am on...)
I could ask you to find my missing car keys, lost in the mayhem of moving flooded articles.
I could attempt to tell you about a series of mystical, overpowering events that transformed me forever.
I could explain exactly how ordinary I am, and exactly how wonderful it is to be an accepted person in a familiar place with rooms and gardens and trees.
I could turn a cartwheel in words.
I could threaten, wheedle, and cajole. I could pass the hat.
I could rejoice in the splendor and radiance of the day in which, at last, there appears to be no rain. (I do rejoice.)
I could dance around the subject of trees, always inspiring.
I could frolic.
But instead, I shall not.
I shall not post.
Not at all, not bit or whit.
I prefer not to: and yet am no Bartleby.