My talent, such as it is, has always been for the slow, meandering sort of personal writing which is suited to little more than observations about the things one is apt to see in the passage of any quite ordinary day, or to the expression of those thoughts which arise from making oneself pay attention to the commonplace minutia of life. In fact, for me, even writing a paragraph or two about, say, the flavor and texture and scent of a slice of buttered toast topped by a smear of apple butter, is far more time consuming than writers possessed of greater mental alacrity than myself and superior organizational ability than is mine might suspect.
Haste has never been my friend, and when I am pressed for time (as I must inevitably be when I attempt to gather bits and pieces of information and assemble them, along with original commentary, into something resembling a decent weblog entry), the literary result is typically far from happy. Thus, my displeasure at my recent forays into this alien genre for which I am so ill suited, both by temperament and by the nature of my limited abilities. Too, this unfortunate lapse into some semblance of relevance has caused me to neglect my usual spewage of pastoral vignettes, word-baubles, japes, and the foolish rantlets which are manifestations of fits of pique occasioned by the minor irritations visited upon me by the world. The sad fact is that it is these which keep me connected to reality- or at least to the small sphere of reality with which I am capable of dealing. Neither I nor my talents are suited to great events.
I could say that the world has been too much with me of late, but it is really its people who have been too much with me- especially those very destructive people who have gathered for themselves far more power than they are capable of using wisely. That I recognize my own limitations makes their inability or unwillingness to recognize theirs particularly galling. It is this which has irritated me into abandoning my normal course and venturing on this journey for which I am ill-equipped, into territory which I take no pleasure in entering. My words have become refugees, displaced by a compulsion to examine the incompetence of people who mistakenly imagine themselves to be great. The thing I want most is to get back to the small and infinite world of the trees and birds and nightly stars. It's hard to see it from here. I'm beginning to think that I might not be able to get back.