Meditation 4/16
On days like today--days of massive shootings of the innocents--it feels like what we do with words doesn't matter. How can it matter? But it does matter. Words shape dreams, words define the parameters of the sad cavern in the heart of America and the world. Words might offer ways to fill that howling empty place. My friends in AA say there's a God-shaped hole in the human heart. Lots of my other friends can't abide the constant God-talk, so maybe it's Horus, or the Equinox, or particle physics, or good strong coffee, or post-modern literary critical theory that's missing. No, wait--scratch that last one. I know the big screen TVs don't fill it, and neither does sex--though I really did noble research into that just to make sure! My pug seems to have found the answer in eating fresh cat poop out of the litter box. Which, come to think of it, reminds me of post-modern literary critical theory. So, as usual, I offer a thought for the day that's more about life and your Art (which, let's face it, is your own living) than it is about writing.

Deshimaru said:

You must concentrate upon and consecrate yourself wholly to each day, as though a fire were raging in your hair.

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