portion of The Marina Piccola, Capri,
oil on canvas, 1859.
Albright-Knox Art Gallery, Buffalo.
Few writers, no matter how big their shadow in the dayworld, retain their size when crossing through the Looking Glass.
The rest of us are flung about in the restless, seething roil of rushing tide. Like sand.
It would save a lot of outrage and wounded ego, as well as assorted huffery and puffery, if more writers realized the dimensions are different here -- that neither they nor their precious MS constitutes the magnificent sailing ship they believe it is, or think, as pilots, they have all the charts.
And Gawd help those who think they are bigger than they are -- just because they managed to beach without floundering in some secluded cove, or their paper boat made it across the village pond.
Here, have a drink from this vial.
We do well to remember that to many in the industry we are as sand in their deck shoes and slime on their dock.
Sure, they need us -- like a whale needs plankon.
I'll stop now, before the metaphors mixed here sink me beneath reproach.
Out of the Swamp, A Thing:
When I check and empty my filters, the collected spam-scam is usually devoid of any satiric interest, since the effusions are comprised mostly of watches, time-shares, and Nigerians.
We are here for your penis.
Run, Men, run.