Literature as smoke screen, literature as activation energy
The night before last, my poor dog came upstairs at around 4am and got in the tub. This, as illustrated earlier, is what she does when she's scared of something. So I got up, robed up, and wandered the house trying to determine was scared my dog. Nothing. With the lights on I got her to come downstairs, then I got dressed and took her outside, in case she had to go really badly and was *scared* by that. Then I pulled on my hoodie and went to sleep on the couch, next to her bed, so she'd feel okay. Then when I got up I remembered it was election day, so I crusaded my ass over to my polling station and voted. I'm pleased to say that the crazy person is not my mayor, as I was afraid might happen.
I've been reading a lot of short stories, lately, and I'm running up hard against something that bothers me. I don't understand a lot of them. I find myself struggling to make sense of the narrative, expending all my energy on determining the parameters of the world and picking up clever clues left behind by the author as to what the hell's going on. Then I get to the end and...uh...it just ends. Nothing happens. Or worse! Something happens but I don't know what the hell it is. So. Thank you, authors. I don't understand your work. I'm not dumb. I am, however, tired of paying in to your system and not getting much in return. Be well, and good bye. You must be this enigmatic to be my friend. You have failed the threshold, pass on.