I began this blog with the concept that writing matters, and matters so much it’s bone marrow deep. In these initial few weeks, I’ve written about living in Vermont and what I’m reading. Have I amused anyone but myself?
These nights, I’m rereading Walden, a book whose spell I first fell under as a high school sophomore. This reading around, in my forties, Walden‘s lyrical craft re-amazes me, while pushing the limits of radical anti-capitalism. Any anarchist worth that word should be pencilling up these pages. Further, I also see how deeply this book — through my own novice reading — shaped the physical construct of my life. Perhaps I was naturally inclined to living in rural Vermont; certainly, Thoreau strengthened that inclination. I am certain the experiences of many others would concur.
This photo below I saw on my daughter’s laptop and asked for a copy. She said, No, that’s not so good. What do you like about that?
What I like is this: this is a photo of extremes — rocky and fragile, crazed paint on an old house behind just-opened petals, and a great deal in between. Isn’t that a portrait of Thoreau? Aiming for the core of living — bitter or not — seeking the sublime, and, between all that, eating a woodchuck.
Be it life or death, we crave only reality. If we are really dying, let us hear the rattle in our throats and feel cold in our extremities; if we are alive, let us go about our business.