Don’t wander into a place about which you know nothing, I said to me.  And if this place about which you know nothing is a source of satisfaction, don’t think about money.  Money taints most things.  And is not pure.

(I am having trouble realizing that the money I earn from being old is enough.  The impulse to make art and sell art seems to be meaningless now, after extended examination by moi.   A piece or two once in a while is just fine.  No sense to structure my life around selling.   Keep stashing your money in the Caymans, Mitt, make more.  You are paying for me, I know.)

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Having readers of my posts is exciting.  And more is more, right?  Therein lies the flaw in my thinking.  My daughter ( upgraded me to  Found a coupon to have the designation for a year for free.  You get what you pay for!  I used to own that name, then let it go, and no one else picked it up.  There is another Lee Malerich, married into the family.  Synthetic.

(We did this on the prospect of getting ads on my blog, like she does.  She makes money over there at brannyboilsover, and I stupidly thought it was a good idea for me.  Another example on the ledger side of my being particularly unable to translate anything into money.  My blog couldn’t have been rejected any quicker than it was.)

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Blogging for those defined as being in their prime, not passe, is something quite different than my understanding about what writing is.   Wordy, and wanting to create a composition of an essay sort, this blog is not targeted enough.  Not tight.  For sure.  Understand why the blog was rejected.

(So what was my response to these facts?  I could not write.  If the passion doesn’t bubble up, the words don’t come.  And another thing.  My muse, my seventeen year old Mouse walked away into the woods to die more than ten days ago.  Could not write about it until fairly sure this is what she did.  Although I still look to see her walking down the long drive.)


Dragging your damn self into your creative act never gets you ads.  What was I thinking?