Any honest assiduous reader must confess that looking too closely and too long at the object (s) of one’s desire can altogether cancel any beneficiary effect. [Please see previous post].
Tonight I wanted to give Thoreau and his self-righteous certitude in Walden a ka-pow kick in the butt. I would have aspired to do the same with Gass’s gaseousness, but he scares me because he’s still alive.
Anyway, tonight I’m reading “Birds of Florida” and stalking the wild turkeys in my backyard.
Emily Dickinson would have given all of this short shrift. “There came a day at Summer’s full/Entirely for me–”