I am a world of one participating in a universe of many. My bits and bobs are arranged as nonstandard, impractical commodities contemporaneous with being disposed as normative and utilitarian. My blends are not patently better or worse than are others’ initiatives. Any merit attached to my work derives from my deliberations being a seizable voice. One size never fit all and never will. At best, my declarations suit some persons, sometimes. Even so, few deeds delight me more than producing word assemblages. I am happiest when exercising my mind, videlicet, when storytelling.
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Gone is the era when writers sacrificed profits for principals. These days, most of what gets posted or printed is tripe. Ironically, vanished, too, is the span when writers sacrificed principles for profits. Today, even if authors play strumpets on Naked News, declare an eating disorder on LinkedIn, or snuff baby rabbits on YouTube, no one cares. Most audiences no longer even regale such acts as “performance art.”
Strengthened, I again am able to nurture. I use diet, not drugs, to combat Missy Older’s allergies. I make an effort to teach Older Dude to share our garden with our neighbors, our toys with our visitors, and our living room with Missy Younger. I show Older Dude and Missy Older how to use words to stop bullies. I gift myself with affirmations.