Semi-Daily Scribbles

The dream is meant to be given up just when all the Big Ideas roll in; a most inopportune time. The verdant years of youthful pursuits give way to ass-numbing commutes. Behold, the careerist is born, and Art is an old-fashioned name. Ambition whispers, but the tease is brief and weariness cuts off any outbursts from that fabled, fickle muse.

40 years on and the dream is hauled out of storage. What's left of time is thin and trickly, but the well of experience is deep. Memories are bullet points. The vision returns, its edges obscured, and the way is made ready so unlike before.