One thing though: my frustration runs deep.
With dozens of books now in the hopper and in various stages of dress and undress, I set a blazing pace at the keyboard and may soon have to buy more floppy disks to keep up with the deadlines. Sleep would be a welcome friend as well.
While in Europe, however, I did manage to keep my promise to Becky that I would not write a single word during this anniversary excursion. I let go of writing completely, but since my return in August I note that I have had one new book released, have written four more book proposals, and have half a dozen others scheduled for release later this year. I've also written nearly 80 published essays and some fifty poems.
Among these verses--some of which I consider my best work to date--I've also reflected on some of the lighter moments of Europe . . . including our visit to the Louvre--a destination that has become nearly singularly defined by the mass pilgrimage to see a tiny Da Vinci portrait, otherwise known as the Mona Lisa. But I personally found the mass-appeal laughable and just had to write about it. If you've been there and witnessed the pull . . . you'll understand this bit of light verse.
Mona Lisa in the Louvre
We wait in line
            We
do our time
                        By
centimeters move
Humanity
            That’s
come to see
                        The
Mona Lisa in the Louvre
You feel the pinch
            As
inch-by-inch
                        The
line snakes in a groove
Dreaming awhile
            You
smile her smile
                        Like
Mona Lisa in the Louvre
Then at the last
            You
hasten past
                        Great
works of art and prove
That you don’t care
            What
else is there
                        But
Mona Lisa in the Louvre
One final push
            And
then you rush
                        A
chaos in commove
To glimpse in mass
            Da
Vinci’s caste
                        His
Mona Lisa in the Louvre
Yes there is art
            Back
at the start
                        But
none of them behoove
The hours of wait
            Right
from the gate
                        As
Mona Lisa in the Louvre
 
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