There are those of you who have heralded my writings, lionized me as a sage and poet and renaissance wonder-boy / world-philosopher. I owe you a thanks proportionate to the hyperbole of your flattery. The modest quality volume of writing is wholly due to this sort of inspiration. Are we not symbiotes – you the reader and I the writer? Caught in a web of interdependency, a pulsing biological and intellectual cycle of mutualism?
Statement of Intent
You are the tickbird nestled in my rhinocerousean armor-plating. Oh please, do not be taken-aback by the role I have casted for you in this zoological metaphor! Do not be distracted by the ostensible link between physical size and overall importance. For it is my tribute to you, dear reader, that i am the rhinocerous. If anything, my relative largess is more closely correlated to my hulking dependence on you! Without your conscientious nibbles, I would no doubt find myself whelmed by a sea of parasitic doubt. You have saved me from the dehabilitating septicemia of nihilism (more commonly known as writer’s block). Few troubling ‘why’s’ have managed to worm their way into my blood stream. Thanks to you, nothing has been able to reduce, block, coagulate, weaken or otherwise interrupt the flow of artistic impulse through my veins or ink from my pen.
And then there is your loving, supportive, squawky criticism that often pops up on the message board, or in a personal email, or a through offhand remark during an in-person meeting. You remark with most practiced unconcern, with studied casuality, that, for example, you were confused by the apparent loss of chronology in my jumbled, recent posts but that all in all you find my work very ‘readable’, even borderline commendable. With heart-wrenching modesty, you might whisper that you have to employ a dictionary in order to confront my posts, and perhaps don’t I think that my loquacity teeters on the crumbly slate of a cliff that, although jutting nobly into the heights of literary prowess, also hangs precipitously over a sheer drop down into vacuousness? With the added, also whispered, caveat that athorogood.wordpress.com is perhaps your favorite E-destination and when will we be spoiled with another post?
And what’s more, just as the chirp and flutter of the oxpecker can alert the lumbering rhinoceros to the sneaky aggressions of poachers and other predators, so does your commentary help me elude the deadly distractions of work, girls and 1000 page David Foster Wallace novels that threaten to saw off my figuratire horn (embodied as the figurative pen) the only defense I have against the thousands slings and arrows and hunting rifles of outrageous fortune.
“Yes, well I’m glad to see someone of our generation has, well, something to say, even if it comes across a bit jumbled at times – but don’t get me wrong, it’s ever so… readable – but perhaps you could, perhaps, exercise a petit peu more economy? Especially when it comes to your Frankensteinian metaphors that you keep trying to patch together in your work? But all in all, tres bien, tres bien, please keep it up.”
I will keep it up. I would also like to take this opportunity to clarify, as much for myself as for you, my dearest readers, the purpose, direction, vector curvature, momentum or what-have-you of this blog.
I would like take up the torch of Lochinvar on a daily basis. To try and ‘adventure’, and then write about it, forever. But I am also faced with particular duties to the more mundane (but by no means discreditable) pursuits that help to make adventures possible. So just so everyone is mis-a-jour, ca va dire ‘up-to-date’, I am now in Montreal starting up a strategically vague ‘writing consultation’ business. But dear readers, do not fret. Look. Just over that horizon! Yes! Over there! Further adventuring and story-telling and self-analysis and societal-analysis will continue in the gregarious, aren’t-we-all-getting-a-little-to-tipsy-to-behave-ourselves cocktail party tone of my internet blogging.
I am dreaming of Australia. I dream of a 24 speed hybrid bike fueled solely by cellular combustion, lubricated by slippery mental determination, that will carry me across the barren snake-infested deserts and expansive golden beaches of Australia. 6000 kilometers of sweltering heat. On a bicycle. In February.
So all I ask is that you cling on until then. I will, in the early New Year, return to the coherent, quotidian, cumulative writings that were the hallmark of my South America trip. Until then, I hope you can sustain yourselves on my disjointed (in time if not in purpose) but still regular writings that may include descriptive, salient moments of my personal history, essays of social and literary criticism, philosophical musings, emotional tirades, intellectual dissections of every stripe and discipline, and even the odd, if minor, away-for-the-weekend knightly adventure.
So please forgive me if for a short interim if, in my written word, I lumber around like an aimless, leathery, prehistoric beast. Please forgive me that all I can offer you are the crunchy, insubstantial, insectoid nibblings of insight and wit.