All the moments count

me-T78Still here, still plugging. Still writing the third book of my trilogy.

The writing slowed down for a month. I managed to distract myself and get off-task flirting in chat rooms, reaching out electronically to try to build some relationships. It’s true that my work tends to isolate me, and sometimes I get so lonely that I’ll talk to almost anyone to break the silence that enfolds me. And there is always Netflix to distract me. I am always finding great shows I missed the first time, and it is so easy to binge on them, watching episode after episode. I watched the first four seasons of FRINGE and can barely wait for the final season to get on Netflix in September. And I’m devouring Breaking Bad now, another treat whenever I need a break from the writing.

The good news is that some very smart people have read my manuscripts and think they’re good. I realize that I am in danger of creating my own brand of elitist literature, of writing stuff that only Braniacs like me can appreciate. I’m hoping that isn’t happening, that I can keep it all in balance.

All the Moments Count

From moments rude or loving we are sown
Difficult to raise, impossible to own
Hard to love, easily disliked,
Explosions of life, barely controlled
in crucibles of agony we’re forged,
by strife tempered, brought to an edge
honed by practice, polished by desire
Into the fire we plunge yet again
And all the moments count.

Staggering from setbacks, raging at Fate,
churned in confusion, we stumble and fall
on shores of neglect the sea casts us out
where we mumble and draw with shaking fingers
our words in the sand, knowing the ceaseless tides
will erase all traces, we nonetheless persist
to try to pass some message on…
And all the moments count.

But life is sweet, even the dregs
that we sip from a cracked cup
with shaking fingers. Even the dregs
are better than the empty cup that awaits us all
at the end of the bender. Is oblivion sweet
with no one to taste it? I’ve no hurry;
the Void will be there when the gas runs out
and my engine finally coughs and dies
And all the moments count.

What will you leave the children of tomorrow?
Not my children, but there will be children;
we leave the Earth to their tender mercies
and hope they’ll do a better job
of balancing the forest and the fireplace.
I missed that bus, and so what I will leave
is probably my work — a message in a bottle
for the future fool who will understand it.
And all the moments count.

— MRK 8/10/2013 10:47AM EST Florida

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