Good Grief, Charlie Brown

A friend who lurks, dropping in occasionally to see what the Cat is up to, emails privately to say she is a little worried about me, as I sit here in my own filth -- gin bottles, Twinkies wrappers, Hustler's Guide to the Hadron Particle Collider -- swooning away till my sweet E. comes home.

There are many things a blog can be, and perhaps too often I let this one descend into Dear Diary mode, where one bathes in one's own tears. But dammit all those years as a journalist have spoiled private writing for me. If no one might possibly read it, why write it? And then you must recall I was a feature writer, the essence of which is -- shall we say about half the time? -- writing about something concerning which no one gives a sh-t but in such a droll and stylish way the form excuses the slightness of the content.

Voila! Let's blog. So I complain and prostrate myself across my bed -- for show; for fun? even the experts disagree.

And I do miss my wife, and I have yet really to internalize how much I miss the damn cat. I am saving that till E. comes home. She was cheated of a last goodbye, and life is as much symbol as thing.

Yet I am happier than I seem. One immediately thinks -- you do; you know you do -- of the exchange in Twelfth Night:

Sir Toby: Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?
Clown: Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i’ the mouth too.
Sir Toby: Thou ’rt i’ the right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs. A stoup of wine, Maria! Well, there you go. I'm a little sad (he revises the text for his purpose), but outside the walls of this blog the cakes, the ale and the bite of ginger remain, and I enjoy them. And, of course, one can always rub one's chain with crumbs.