It Shall Be Writ

This is what the first day of summer looked like here, a gray and rainy day without much promise.  I left work early and went to a celebration at a new Mexican restaurant that serves over 100 different brands of tequila.  Being, however, that I had to get home to take care of my mother, I was very judicious.  Still, having put the crack in the dam, I had a couple drinks with and after dinner.  I woke in the night with a dry mouth and a headache.  There in the darkness, I was forced to think about things in that desperate way that comes sometimes--or maybe more often.

The conclusions of the night do not always seem as sage come daylight.

You may wonder what brings me back to the writing table.  As do I.  But it is simple, really.  I might tell you sometime, indirectly, of course, without explanation.  In truth, though, I figure what the hell.  I have killed the site and a blog like this will never be found again let alone read.  It is a record, a port for hidden revelations.  To me, I mean.  The author.

Here is one revelation that came to me late in life.  People can't really help what they do.  The whole free will thing is an illusion, I think.  One is predestined toward certain behaviors.  There are things people do that they can't help but do no matter what.  To expect them to decide otherwise is ludicrous.  The concept of free will is a sham.

There will be more on this, too, in the coming days.

That, I guess, was last night's Solstice of the Soul.  No dancing virgins nor any fertility rites.  Just a dry mouth and a headache and some sleepless nighttime soul searching in a lumpy, backbreaking bed in my mother's house.

Still, I am planning on a glorious life.  It shall be writ with all the carelessness I can muster.