Quatsch

Today is practice. Praxis. The ritual of writing, which has been less ritual of late than agonizing torment. Frankly, I don't have much to say at all, just a mass jumble of thoughts and experiences that when stitched together form a whole lotta nonsense. But nonsense can be comforting...safe, secure in meaninglessness. Some things don't necessarily have to have meaning, I suppose. Like the way the sun is glinting off the marigold on my cousin's balcony. There is beauty in that, meaningless beauty.

But today, or soon, I have to find meaning. My editor demands it. My paycheck requires it. Meaning in a whole lotta nonsense that makes sense in dollars and cents but not in much else. The bottom line is what matters here, my friends. Reduction to a single line of meaning. This is it.

The story I'm now putting together works on this principle: it's about the money, stupid. Money and power and money. These interchangeable elements of this interchangeable world. Substitute power for money and the end result is money. Substitute money for power and the end result is again power. Round and round. I know I'm sounding rather banal; there's no breakthrough here. And I realize now that what I'm saying may sound rather cryptic as well, considering I haven't clarified what 'the story' is about. But I don't want to bore you with details. Power and money. That's all you need to know.