At the end of 2005 I was starting to work on the Genesis 1 book. But I was also writing journal entries. Here’s stuff I was thinking about on the brink of 2006:
If it was to be the one thing in all the world I could do… what would it be? Regardless of response from or participation by the world, in perfect exile, with only the ghosts of legendary fellow travelers to keep me company, what is it that I would do?
I would write books — assuredly. But what else, if anything, would I put out there, perhaps as a lure to the spirits of the imagination? Would it still be the Salon? And what version would it be this time? Whom or what would I serve?
To understand anything at all demands that I make passage through the wretchedness to some other waters in which the free and open spirit can breathe. Not success, but rather some profundity of obscurity that renders me invulnerable. Not gripped by my irrelevance, but where I fully regard everything and everyone as irrelevant to my own personal plenitude.
If I could appeal to the greatness of man’s imagination… To create great ideas, great fiction and nonfiction, whether written or lived. To uphold the dream of an openness of life and of the spirit. Where, this time, do I begin? Can I stay the course, out of some sort of duty – or perhaps destiny? What is the work?