Oh, To Be A British Alpine Goat (my anecdotal apology for disappearance)


To the stakeholders (followers), curiously cautious pundits of search engines (visitors), and serendipitous Internet bumblebee’s (alighting upon blossoming websites) please accept my apology for my absence from this blog and, consequently, the lack of freshly baked posts.

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I know that my apology may be a bit unusual and absolutely unnecessary; however, I favor civility and honest contrition when one, quite benignly, overlooks a deadline for regrets.  Dignity and grace insist that a personal note (posted that day) asking for benevolence regarding the delinquency of my response; I regretfully decline their gracious invitation to which they respond (for themselves and the blogosphere-at-large) their disappointment and a standing invitation to return to the blogosphere lest I find myself hopelessly self-sequestered from the rest of the world.

As a rule rarely discussed, Writer’s digest life like British Alpine goats level a pasture.  But goats aren’t expected to till and reseed the pasture they’d recently leveled.  Goats have no relation to the past.  It’s “full speed ahead!” As they mow their way about the emerald green pastures of the lowlands!  Goats are enlightened as they don’t drag hundreds of yesterdays when they move from pasture to pasture.  Contented goats just chew and chew and chew.agrazinggoat2

Writers, on the other hand, focus on the recollection of their past, harvest the past of others, or imagine the past of a fictional character whose past is a combination of the amalgamation of the writers past, the “blood draw” of recalled confessing invitees to dinner parties or the stealthy concern of other’s problems.  Writers live in the past because it is a plump menagerie of recollection; an account from which to draw and deposit; a cistern which never falls beneath the water line of suffering.  To hell with future!  The suffered past of unaware donors is where the writer lives.  Suffering attracts readers like moths to a light.

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