I stopped counting the drafts in my blogger queue when I reached fifteen. That's fifteen mini-piphanies in the offing. Something's coming, but nothing's finishing.
Yesterday the Sippican longed for something beautiful. People seem to be screwing that up mostly by looking for too much detail. It has to be a beach, an empty beach, an empty beach at sunset, an empty beach at sunset with three and a quarter margaritas already gulped. Too many criteria. Or they act like they've taken a frying pan to the head and go running straight to something ugly, like an underfed lingerie model with a purse-dog. Preening is vanity, not beauty. Nature's beasts have their garish displays for attracting mates - celebrities aren't even the beasts, they're just the displays. They're the inflamed and swollen asses of our baboon culture.
Man has gone from cave paintings to hieroglyphics to frescoes to flat-panel televisions. The record of our era of civilization will be DVR playbacks of some show called "The Girls Next Door." Bravo, I suppose, if we are simply to be remembered as a people who placed its highest value on having fun, however a television producer might define it.
It all probably has something to do with fear of aging. Everyone has it, but too many have it matched with the crippling misconception that only youth is beautiful. Not so. Museums are kept for a reason. The museums of our youth are our children. They are holding something in them, something that looks a lot like what we once were. They are our cave paintings and hieroglyphics and frescoes, keeping the record of everything beautiful in us, even if we are just flat-panel televisions to them for now.