I’ve been asked to give my opinion on SLS, the revised NASA proposal for long-range space exploration.  Time will tell.

I found a note scratched onto the walls of a quarry that is not obvious to the naked eye because one must take multiple photographs of different parts of the wall and overlay them correctly.

That was my excuse for missing a high school reunion.

The words of the note sit here in front of me, pointing to a place where I can (or might) find the door that leads me out of the novel into which I’ve written myself.

One of the former rotating leaders of the Committee buried instructions in children’s reading books so that some day, when a new, grownup leader, took over, s/he would, like me, suddenly have, in a dream, full recall of the instruction set, and thus find oneself in a quarry similar to mine, with the right equipment, to escape from the living dream of perpetual, hesitant, nonmonomaniacal leadership.

One hundred million comedians out of work and, although I have the coolest comedy gig on this planet – making subtle, satirical, sarcastic edicts daily to unseen billions – I’m willing to give it up without a golden parachute?

What am I, crazy?

[Don’t answer that question.  It’s supposed to be rhetorically posed, not debated in Rhetoric, Stoicism, stochastic, or scholastic style.]

Does anyone remember the first bird who squawked, “Polly want a cracker”?  Was the parrot named Polly (assuming it was a parrot) or was the bird speaking for a person who said the phrase so many times the bird joined in?

If beauty is truth and truth your duty, then why do pirates bury their booty?

More than one person has requested that I release a new novel into the world.  I’m not sure why.  Novels are evidence that, for a short time period, I was completely out of my mind (Minds don’t exists so I guess I should say that novels are proof my thoughts are organisable such that nightmares are becoming, neither cautionary tales nor light bedtime reading.  (“Becoming what?”  Nothing.  Just becoming, as in evoking delight.)).

To go into that mindset without medical aids, to see the hidden meaning behind the nod from a blonde at the front corner of Beauregard’s, or the extra baked potato at Tim’s Cajun Kitchen, or the echo of voices in a bedroom with wood flooring…

Do you want to know what this universe is really all about?

Do you want to know why I want us to get off this planet as soon as possible?

I’m not sure that you really want to know.

I’m not sure that I want to split myself into multiple personalities and explore storylines that may or may not be real, putting pebbles in ponds both imaginary and epicureal.

If only I can find that door, the escape hatch from this leadership position which cages me in this blog.

As in times past, a muse holds the key.

Or, rather, the muse is the key.

Time to write my exit…