I wonder, you know, sometimes. Is writing a dead art? Has it been usurped by FinalCut Pro? Has its relevance been reduced to the kind of necessary information we need simply to sustain ourselves and be responsible?

No, writing, and novels, and poetry are not dead arts. They live to this day, and will continue to do so, remarkably enough. Is it as if the cave painters of Lascaux were to say, 'whatever we do, whoever follows us will always work this form, and so we do it, knowing its potential, (rather innocently, or not).' They were the same fools who, like many greats, thought they could, and did, somewhat like children, in good spirit.

Reading books we are touched and awed. We don't know what to say. And this is the foundation of education, an attempt to explain why the creature did that, and of what the ochre meant, well, you don't need to think, just have a look!

The only problem may be/is that We all can do it, just like we all can enjoy wine, beer, alcohol. We all have memories worth writing down.

I think sometimes that we are just the same as dogs. We sit waiting and happy for some positive thing, shiver when it's cold and we're not getting any praise, while all the time keeping a respectful sort of neediness, an appreciation for that potential of being allowed to be ourselves in our grace, fine ear, and jumping beauty. The dog, yes, was heaven-sent, so that we could 'get' something.