I rarely have scrambled eggs anymore, though I quite enjoy them. I derived a sense of cheap grace by abstaining from the bacon. I have a theory, as yet untried, that heated turkey jerky would be a fitting accompaniment to eggs. Some days I wish I were vegetarian--on such days I wonder if they still make sausage from cherries.
I was delighted to find that Doris Lessing won the Nobel Prize for Literature. The Golden Notebook meant a great deal to me when I was twenty. I proved disappointed to find that Harold Bloom offered a critique of the selection--and though Harold Bloom's defense of the romantic poets deserves some respect, in general I think life is too full of the Harold Blooms of the world, who are the true pharasaical "death of art". In a related vein, I always liked that Neil Young said that "Sweet Home Alabama" is a better song than "Southern Man". I love the image when Anna Wulf joins the Labour Party.
I'm puzzling over people who punch holes in Monets and kiss Twomblys. I'm more than puzzled by the zeitgeist of recent times that any school yard slight justifies a retaliation based on firearms. Yet so often the key to the mysteries is not worthy of Poirot, but relates to personal challenges faced by the perpetrators. In this very modern world I believe we need more velvet ropes between audience and artwork. At the same time< I wonder if we don't erect too many velvet ropes on that old mainstay "what is art?".
The rich get richer. The poor get poorer. The plot thickens like pumpkin soup, but turns out to be as banal as a discount store werewolf costume on November 4. I'm tired of the same old thing--self-fulfilling perceived unsolvable problems. I'm ready for solutions.
I'm exhausted. I'm thankful that exhaustion is the worst challenge I face tonight.