He considered himself an empirical philosopher. He’d taken a number of college level philosophy courses but almost always dropped out before final exams having found his instructors unbearably opinionated and unfair in their grading schemes. He was not always wrong about that. The times were, in fact, sort of “a’changing”…

Being a “fan” is a form of self-deprecation. Rather than taking pride in our own accomplishments, we tag along vicariously on the hoped for accomplishments of others. Being a “sports” fan seems an exercise in sadomasochism as well. We suffer through defeats in which we really play little or no…

He preferred Will-o’-the-wisp to Ignis Fatuus, or you could call him just plain Will and he’d not mind, or Willy if you were close. One of his paramours had affectionately called him Wispy Will, he’d sort of liked that. But Ignis Fatuus was not only pompous, but sounded gaseous, sort…

He’d been sitting in a garden, under a large tree, and he noticed the position of his arms and legs, somewhat uncomfortable but very balanced, and a flower came to mind, a lotus. Not often, but also, not infrequently, he’d considered the possibility that he was in fact divine…

Once upon a time, a long time ago, as single lives come and go, there was a little girl whose name was Marianne, Marianne Bass, although it might have been Mary Anne, or Maryanne. Who knows, girls play a bit with the spelling of their names. …

How do my nostalgia and melancholy relate to bitterness? Or are they more associated with boredom? Or a combination of both? Actually, I’d guess, they’re related to the full panoply of emotions I’ve felt and to the spectrum of my personal experiences. …

Nirvana doesn’t appeal to me. Nor frankly do Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, etc., although heaven is such an amorphous concept it can encompass anything. Abrahamic heaven is certainly not my thing. At best, horribly boring with perpetual psalms, harping and sycophancy. But an afterlife with everyone I’ve cared for would be…

Reflection and introspection at times clarified things for him. His life had not been bad but it had been confusing, and despite its complexities and diversity, he was unfulfilled. Fulfillment, he realized, at least in his case, had to come from within, and his attempts to obtain it through his…

The lava was dazzlingly bright and malodorous, viscous and horribly searing. He could feel the ring formerly called by some Isildur’s Bane, the One Ring, the one still on Frodo’s finger but both now both ensconced in his belly, both stirring and rumbling, as if fighting or perhaps mating. Somehow…