There is no end to things. To things that matter, there is no end in sight. To things that do not matter, there is no end of hope.
I turn time and time again to what does not matter as being the only fit pasture for my labored mind. I need peace. I do not need consolation.
If there is any one thing I am most grateful for it is that I feel no need to explain myself. Really, I would not know how to begin.
I enjoy art. I do not enjoy art for any reason other than to look forward to more art to enjoy. I am thankful for this Internet thing, by which lovely, intelligent art appears on the screens of my several electronic image receiving devices for me to take in and enjoy. I am quite sure I enjoy what I see. I am just as sure that it is good for me.
Being religious in nature (and that is a matter of nature I think) I am inclined to accept what is good and be grateful. If the good appears as fascinating, well-constructed, prompting images and poems or poems and images, so much the better. I claim nothing for myself. I am very glad if others are as happy that they do what they do as I am that I do mine.
What should I do with a poem, or image, except to create it? If I were God - and there are several strains of thought that suggest in strong terms that I am his child - I would certainly be content to create and to support with love and promise. That would be enough. The God of the Old Testament did not, to take one example, feel inclined to shout out to the earth that here was Adam & Eve, etc.
How should I promote my own creations?
I am not old, but neither am I young. I cannot tell if this is satire. I confuse even myself to a pleasant distraction that should hold me for, oh, a week or so.
