Why, Mickey, Why?

I have now entered new territory in my daily posting streak. 748 consecutive days with at least one post, one essay, one picture paffooney, or one announcement every single day for two years and 18 days. 12 days more than the last time I reached this many.

And why do I do it? Why do writers feel the need to communicate daily with the universe in this fashion, writing junk that may one day be read and understood by someone, and definitely may not be read by anyone ever? Most of the people who visit this post will do so for the pictures, not for the prose. It is a conversation with a silent universe that has no love for me, no pity, and no malice. My writing exists for the same reasons that I do. I simply already exist. I just happen to be here.

Whatever magic I have in my words, it will never teach anybody anything if they are not seeking something and make the effort to find it by including my many nonsensical notions in their searching and putting up with the inane effort to read it.

And this is the same reason that the works of writers I know and love exist. The poems of Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, Walt Whitman, and whoever really wrote the blank verse of William Shakespeare. The essays of Henry David Thoreau, Robert Fulghum, Dave Barry, and Carl Sagan. The cartoon strips of Charles Shultz, Lyn Johnston, Walt Kelly, and Al Capp. The comic books of Carl Barks, Wally Wood, Stan Lee and Jack King Kirby, and Alan Moore. All the comedy, psychological drama, fantastic characters, themes, and raw emotion that make up life as I know it.

That’s why Mickey does all of it and any of it. The real reason why.


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