At Victrola after enjoying the first installment of "Colloque Wheel" I've attended. It's a monthly reading of prose and poetry by the authors and lasted about an hour. Sometimes I think—no, I'm sure—that people are simply in love with the sound of words. And not just the sound of words, but the sound of their words. There is, of course, a longing to be heard, but sometimes I suspect an even greater longing to speak, to say, to have our selves make noise regardless of a listener (even though a listener is needed for the affirmation and acceptance that drives us). The endeavor is terribly self-involved and terribly human. Coming away from an art event like this one, I know the socially acceptable response is to be affected, yet I am not. It's the difference between sex and masturbation.
(Did I just say that?)
The fun part is, the above is all about me. In writing here, where others can read or not, there's hardly a difference. Perhaps I am not so separate, or not separate at all. Perhaps I'm not giving it a chance. Notorious for that.
Avaldus was released today: Exhibit B that I am not so very different.
In case it hasn't shown, I'm in a fairly cavalier mood today. Caring too much about too much hasn't been working well. Think I'm a better man when I'm more playful, have a better perspective on the world and my place in it. There's not much that's worth taking too seriously, and much of that with joy.