The news out of Milan Fashion Week is a return to the plague, this time known as coronavirus. Everything Thomas Mann is new again.
The halls of this dormant account have not been darkened by literary shadow in say, over three years entirely through fault of my own. Can I still write? Do I have something to say? Is there enough oxygen in the room? Can you start and stop and start again?
As Dorothy Parker famously quipped, "someone was using the pencil." Or more accurately, to paraphrase Judy Garland, perhaps "I never left."
At some point telling the tale of not telling becomes the point; missed opportunities, missed vantage points, torn pages from a journal never to be recovered. Blame the inauspicious return on harrowing times as we head into a possible dystopian future that somehow needs accounting. The fall must be accounted.
So here I sit cavalierly sipping coffee and ruminating on the Oxford comma when I should instead be actively following up on multiple digital applications in the corporate world far removed from the safe confines of these word-filled halls. Similarly, resumes quite like blogging are simple auditions; attempts at acceptance, connection, persuasion. Any role in the chorus will do.
It appears the royal "We" are here at this place again. I cannot promise to be faithful, a fear of commitment also extends to preventing bumper stickers on my car. But unlike the hermetically capped correspondence between Eudora Welty and William Maxwell, 'What There Is to Say We Have Said,' there is always another last word.
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