What I'd Say

Dead inside people rarely laugh. When they do it's slight, short, and barely audible. If I were to advise a stand-up comedian I'd tell him to ply his trade away from a government town.

Time

What happens if you get stuck in a moment of time? Are you frozen at that second forever? Are you too reflective of a 'then' and an 'I remember when'? Best, I think, to move on, to never stay in one place, not even to catch one's breath. Best to step away from a backward sadness, to march ahead forewarned but not unaware of a future that maybe gleams just for you.

Saul Bellow

Opening Paragraph From Saul Bellow's 'Augie March'. Is it a great twentieth century novel? Square Corner thinks so. Square Corner also wishes he could right half as well as Bellow.

“I am an American, Chicago-born,Chicago that somber city—and go at things as I have taught myself, free-style, and will make the record in my own way: first to knock, first admitted; sometimes an innocent knock, sometimes not so innocent. But a man’s character is his fate, says Heraclitis, and in the end there isn’t any way to disguise the nature of the knocks by acoustical work on the door or gloving the knuckles.”

I Feel Fine

Clogged arteries. Wax filled ears. Stuffed-up nose. May as well stay in bed all day and eat rice crackers and seaweed.

The Artist

I read of an artist who had a swirling, twirling mind that would spin out of control. He would crash and burn but wouldn't be consumed by his own fiery temperament. He'd rise up again, his creative mind cool and capable once more.Then he'd paint for the ages. But predictably the cycle began anew. I guess he was what he was, a creative genius.

Finding Freedom

I think the core instinct of the individual is to make himself free. That goes for other creatures too. Birds fly. Fish swim. Wild horses gallop. Even a snake slips away from his skin. What that way is for the individual depends on the person and his life circumstances. Often times the song of freedom needs to be played over and over inside a man's dreams; the song spun many times to reveal its truest notes. Should the tune be sung just right he'll slip away from his skin, gallop to freedom, fly to where he wants to be.

Kafka In A Can

Of course the conclusions you draw from what you're about to read depend on your view of life. But if you've got even a pinch of cynicism then you should be informed of an author who wrote like a kindred spirit. He was the late Kobo Abe, a twentieth century writer who has been heralded as the Japanese Kafka. To make the connection between these two scribblers I'll refer to his novel about a protagonist who lives both inside his head and a cardboard box that becomes his mask. It's Abe's statement about the numbing conformity of modern society and how an individual avails himself of a box to preserve a thread of his humanity. A comparison can be made to Kafka's short story 'Metamorphosis,' where a twentieth century man wakes up an insect, imprisoned inside a cockroach's armor.

So I look at an empty can of Diet Coke sitting next to the corner of my keyboard and wonder what it would be like to shrink myself and make it my solitary home. If I could find a total body reducer machine I just might try it. Shrink a ladder along with me as my mode of entry. I could bore some holes through the walls in order to allow a freer flow of air and gain a better view of whatever surrounded me. But there are downsides to consider. Like the errant smoker who drops a cigarette butt into my new home like a smoldering A-bomb. Worse yet would be the overzealous 'dogooder' who collects the can and tosses it--me bouncing around inside--into a bin of recyclable water bottles and plastic yogurt containers.

Might be just as well do give up on these crazy ideas and continue my blogging. Better that than breathe inside a modernist can with all its risks.