I have sometimes amused myself with picturing out a nation of loafers. Only think of it! an entire loafer kingdom! Give us the facilities of loafing, and you are welcome to all your benefits of your tariff system, your manufacturing privileges, and your cotton trade. For my part, I had serious thoughts of getting up a regular ticket for President and Congress and Governor and so on, for the loafer community in general.[Having loafed for a good portion of my fifty years on this earth, I can tell you with authority that loafers make terrible politicians. Do not elect us.]
I apologize for not writing yesterday, but honestly, I was both exhausted by the essay I posted on Sunday and overwhelmed by the response. Thus far, that post has received more than 200 visits--by far the largest number that any of my posts has ever received. But writing it did wear me out, and I'm not sure why.
So now I'm off to spend my birthday in the most mundane ways possible: dealing with the guy who's arriving to replace our rusty propane tank; doing three loads of laundry; sitting beside a soccer field in the rain. Loafing, in other words . . . which, in Whitman's terms, also means that I am laughing and crying and watching and explaining and questioning and describing and exaggerating and saluting you, my dearest reader. Thank you for your bright and loving friendship.
[Helpful remark from my friend David: “I tell you, we are here on Earth to fart around, and don’t let anybody tell you different.” – Kurt Vonnegut]