I have something like seventeen blog posts in the works: skeletons of themes awaiting the flesh of words.  The topics include free will, taxes, originality, my mom, my best friend, business and politics.  Saying what I would like to say about these subjects calls for more than a Facebook-like attention span — therefore I ask friends of this blog to bear with me between posts.  I cannot possibly produce enough output to sate the maw of the internet, and so I will not try.

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I just reread with greater care the comments to my post “The Wonder Years” and was moved by the emotion and humanity my friends expressed.  I am grateful for what you so candidly shared, as it made me feel part of a greater whole, different as our stories are.

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Thinking large while on an art safari in the Asphalt Jungle:

• What a difference in energy level, mountains vs city.  It is invigorating watching all the mostly young and smartly dressed men and women stride purposefully along New York’s numbered streets to whatever apparently-important destination awaits them.  As a whole, they do not look like joyless urbanites.  They seem to wear many shades of black.

• I had to recalibrate my lunchtime menu orders while we were in the city.  I kept getting twice the food I expected, no doubt a reflection of the modestly-sized sandwiches they serve in restaurants back home.  In New York City, they want to put meat on your bones.  In the mountain south, the emphasis is on carbs in your belly, one burrito at a time.

• This was my first visit to the Museum of Modern Art.  I have contemporary tastes, so I thought I would eat this place up like creme caramel.  Instead, I was surprised how quickly I tired of the high-concept installations and canvas after canvas with idiosyncratic splashes of color.  Don’t get me wrong, I like abstract art and would like to make more of it myself.  But my brother-in-law Robert was right: conceptual art makes your brain labor in a way that Cezanne does not.

• Speaking of Cezanne, he paints fruit as ruddy red radioactive treasures, stolen from the Garden of Eden and set aside to ripen in his Bowl of Knowledge.  It is too bad that Cezanne did not serve as God’s Creative Director, as it would have made for a more vibrant and interesting world all around.

• Funny how after your fourth or fifth cab ride in Manhattan, you begin to get used to the sudden stops, swerves and three lanes of traffic that merge into one at a moment’s notice.  The accident-free flow of cars seems to follow the same law of nature that governs how water cascades over the rocks in a river, carrying along fallen leaves and water skimmers without damaging them.  The cab drivers sense the flow and go with it.

• Nice that you no longer have to fumble for cash in New York cabs, as they now accept debit and credit cards.  The new problem is figuring out the right way to swipe the card through the reader as the driver waits and waits for you to wade through the technology standing between him, his payment and his next fare.

• Regretfully, I didn’t take one artsy photograph in New York.  Next time, maybe.

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