I ask myself, often. Outside there’s a fine misty rain sparkling as it drifts down in the sunlight, turning oblivious pedestrians into animated wet towels. Yesterday was brilliant and the people are still stupefied—disbelief does crazing things to Southlanders confronted with their first sunshine after a long SAD winter.

I’m again ensconced over a latté venti (if I’ve got it right) and of this moment powered by clean burning natural caffeine. For once there’s no sign of The Sage—either he’s miffed at the lack of rum or he’s found himself a Sagette in a parallel universe. Figment of my imagination or not, I miss the old bugger when he’s not around. Life on an even keel is not all that exciting. So in his absence I dare pose the question—


“Is there a purpose to it all?”


I know full well what The Sage would say if he were here. He’d tell me (while rabbiting about in the drawers of my desk looking for rum) that the only purpose for human existence is to reproduce as comfortably as we can. Being a real cynic’s cynic he’d add that there’s only three ways to do so:

  1. by trading genuine goods and/or services at mutually agreed rates and exchanges
  2. by the timely parting of the fool that’s born every minute from his money, mainly by guile and deception; or
  3. by force

—and being of the spook persuasion himself he’s an expert on item 2 above:  “You can’t be honest, ” he told me once, “without treading on some powerful toes.” He added a rider to the effect that I should always be careful, especially when dealing with superstitions and the well-meaning deluded. Being a spook himself he’s an expert in the field and it is good advice. I ignored it then and I ignore it now; so be warned—you read me at your peril and here be monsters.

In the meantime and until he gets back or otherwise manifests himself … here’s a nice duck:














PS  I like ducks …


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