But even Solomon, he says, “the man that wandereth out of the way of understanding shall remain” (ie. even while living) “in the congregation of the dead.”  Give not thyself up, then, to fire, lest it invert three, deaden thee; as for a time it did me.  There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness.”

Moby-Dick, Chapter 96: The Try-Works

crawl from grave

Self-portrait of my soul’s intrepid effort to reclaim this space.

Today I try, because, if we never try. . . blah blah blah.  My muse is dead.  No, not dead, but seriously maimed, soberiingly mute.  So I’m putting her in the try-works.  Usually she bathes in the try pots at leisure, rendering oil from the blubber tossed her way.  But in the heat of critical self examination the pots must have boiled over and fried her something like a bug under a magnifying glass. “Like a plethoric burning martyr”, my muse burnt her little self out. I could bore you with the looped recording which, reeling madly, smoked her into her own little funeral pyre.  But I will not give those thoughts a life on this page, as they are tedious.  Deadly tedious,

Noted psychiatrist Albert Ellis once said : “There are three musts that hold us back: I must do well. You must treat me well. And the world must be easy.”

So here, today, with a nod to Ellis, I will dare to do. . .

not well,

but something.

And in doing something I place a tentative foot in the dirt and step away from the congregation of the dead.

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