Old stuff

     It's always interesting to find an old piece of writing you did.  I remember that several years back I found an old Tom and Jerry comic book that I read when I was a kid; maybe I was seven or eight years old when I read it all the time.  There is one panel where Tom is on water skis being pulled by a speedboat driven by Jerry.  For whatever reason, when I was a kid, I had drawn a speech balloon that had Tom saying, "Dad is dumb".  Obviously, I was angry at my dad for some long-forgotten, but, in all probability, stupid reason.  The only reason that it's significant is that I received a well-deserved spanking for it.  Actually, two spankings: one from my mom, when she found it, and one from my dad, once he came home from work.
     Combing through older digital files on my computer, I found this small bit of writing.  According to the date it was made when I was beginning my third year of university studies.  I was already jaded with school, not really knowing what the future was holding for me.  From my room in the Army ROTC dorms, I could see a mountain that I'd rock climb on occasion.  It was the beginning of a new academic year and the trees were a tired green, languishing in the heat of late summer.   Here it is:

     I stared outside from the inside of my room through the window.  The wind was flowing over and through the leaves of an oak.  The high mountains could be seen far away in the horizon.  I've climbed a few of them.  I wasn't looking at anything in particular.  There was a time when I really cared.  Not anymore.  I have different priorities now.  I still love this place, though.  This is not the place where I was born nor the place where I was raised.  It's not the place where I found that profound meaning of life or where I fell in love.  It's a place where there is no purpose.  It is simply beautiful.  And I love it.  You know, all good works of literature are nothing but good bullshit.

     I still enjoy that last sentence.  I was tired of finding meaning in the analysis of the classics of literature.   I was tired of thinking of new and creative things to write about.  And I was tired of everyone being the artistic martyr and the vicious critic.  I love reading and I enjoy writing, but I doubt I will ever make a profession out of either.  Unlike that younger man, I am at peace with that.