Happy And Alone, You Say?

When You Love Somebody, Or Something, Its Amazing How Willing You Are To Overlook The Flaws.

Around The Time I Began Starving, In The Early Eighties, The Visual Image Had Begun To Supplant Text As Culture's Primary Mode Of Communication, A Radical Change Because Images Work So Differently Than Words: They're Immediate, They Hit You At Levels Way Beneath Intellect, They Come Fast And Furious.

On The Broad Spectrum Of Solitude, I Lean Toward The Extreme End: I Work Alone, As Well As Live Alone, So I Can Pass An Entire Day Without Uttering So Much As A Hello To Another Human Being. Sometimes A Day's Conversation Consists Of Only Five Words, Uttered At The Local Starbucks: 'large Coffee With Milk, Please.

My Recipe For Bliss On A Friday Night Consists Of A 'new York Times' Crossword Puzzle And A New Episode Of 'homicide;' Saturdays And Sundays Are Oriented Around Walks In The Woods With The Dog, Human Companion In Tow Some Of The Time But Not Always.

Solitude Is A Breeding Ground For Idiosyncrasy, And I Relish That About It, The Way It Liberates Whim.