When I first started this blog, I was inspired by Vladimir Nabokov's "Speak, Memory," a masterwork in memoir telling and recollection. It's quite an exercise to flex your memory muscles, to go there. Dredging up the bottom of the lake brings up a lot more than you bargain for, let me tell you.
But frankly, I'm getting bored with the whole "me" part of it all. I think I've shared most of the interesting stuff that's in the attic that I care to share in a public forum. The rest is just bad choices and disastrous personal relationships and the like, which, I guess, is the price you pay for admission into a quasi-free-form lifestyle. Entertaining for you, perhaps (I hope), day destroying debilitating for me, on occasion.
There's still a lot of good stuff I could relate — UFOs, sexcapades, a ton of embarrassment— and in some sense it's the best stuff, the way artists like Picasso always kept the stuff he liked best stacked backside against the wall so guests couldn't see them. But all that's best shared in person, with animated gestures and well-rehearsed elocution, in a setting with good food, good views, and good company.
It would be dis-spirited of this post to continue saying anything more about the subject. I will have the random occasional post here on mud and feathers, but moving forward, this is where all action will be:
Click to launch and "read all about it!" as we publishers are prone to proclaim.