Too Proud a Solitude

I've always thought of my personal blog as the metaphorical equivalent of a transfer station, a heterogeneous tide of ailing and deceased furniture, construction debris, bags of dog shit and plastic trinkets sprent with the odd teak picnic table, Mickey Mantle rookie card, diamond ring, a coveted photograph of an ex-lover thrown away in a fit of drunken rage. Whether I am the man in the armored bulldozer wheeling madly atop a mountain of filth whilst conveying the refuse towards the drop hole and the waiting trucks below; whether I am the bulldozer itself; whether I am the madding gaggle of contractors and college students frantically expunging extraneous paraphernalia from the backs of pickup trucks and white Econoline vans without windows; or whether I am all of these and more: these queries suggest, perhaps, a particular metaphysics of garbage and I shall not play the obscurant in a vague attempt to tread its mystical and treacherous paths. One thing is all but certain, however: they are inextricable, one from the other: the rough diamonds and the lovely filth that frames their cold, hard, imperfect brilliance. Bohumil Hrabal, I salute you.

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