October in the Railroad Earth
Creaky supply lines. Border crises. Woke mobs and cancel culture coffins. Inflation. Our last elections, maybe….
“…end of land sadness end of the world gladness all you San Franciscos will have to fall eventually and burn again.”
Stealing titles from Jack Kerouac now, my creativity is frayed and in desperate need of a stitch. The private written record of my own journaling calls me out on it.
I write better with at least a half a tank of passion. But my passions lately have been trampled underfoot. Opportunities for anything like joy or inspiration are ground into the earth under a rolling pile-on of aging pets, ailing or dying family and friends, fascism in fashion, rampant apathy and another looming Midwestern winter.
No longer a young man, I have been well aware for a fair amount of time by now that my strongest and most productive days are likely behind me. But this has not been a revelation with any real drama or regret. I have been lucky enough to have built a satisfactory record of accomplishment, I enjoy the companionship of what is left of an…