This world of ours

Sometimes I think (and the suggested "sometimes I don't think must be also true") that my lifetime endeavors are fruitless. I write, but sometimes I don't get that big pat on the back that we all look for: recognition. Let's face it, if you write you are writing for someone else to read. Writing is communication, and communication is always (no exceptions at all) an effort to communicate a thought or idea to someone else. Even darned artistic poets like Emily Dickenson who holed themselves up inside their homes wrote for someone. And that's the whole truth of it. We want our thoughts and feelings and ideas to garner some form of recognition. We want our spouse, kid, brother, grandpa, neighbor, or proverbial neighbor to read our writing and say, "Ahh", "that's right", "Ha ha ha", or even "This makes me so mad I want to rip it up." To each writer there is a sought after response. Even if they don't know it.

Now, in our society the most acceptable form of recognition is money. We write and so someone gives us money. It seems like a suitable relationship. However we'll often settle for less.

But in this day and age we have computers so that anyone, like me, can write and be published to the world. It is wonderful. But because we have such unlimited expression, we get the dregs of the human animal along with the pinnacle of expression. That's just what we get for our liberal allowances. The same is true for every other form of expression: advertising, painting, performance art, politics. We've always had the lowest forms of expression in the world, now they just feel like they have a right to foist their opinions on us. But here's the kicker...we don't have to read it, watch it, listen to it, or smell it. That's right, we can ignore it. And until their existance becomes dangerous to my eternal salvation that's what I'll do.

I like to think that I may be in the upper 50% of that little group. But I'm probably not, so you may ignore me too (I won't tell if you don't). But I will continue to enjoy this little glimpse into the anima/animus of our culture.

And now I will type something in German.

Ich habe gedacht daß ich werde ein Autor sein. Aber es ist eine Schwierigkeit daß ich sie für ein Wunsch haben. Weil ich habe keine Bücher geschreiben. Ach, so ist es. Ich tue es eines Tages.