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Operative theory...

There is an economic theory operative in corporate boardrooms, I'm convinced, that propounds the populace might spend our way out of this Covid pandemic, or, at the very least, that business should exploit it as a unique opportunity to maximize profits. Every day, I receive multiple emails urging me to buy before I die. Invariably, these exhortations include images of all the stuff marketing experts, assisted by their AI, have calculated that I am just dying (no pun intended) to max out my plastic in order to possess. I resist all such entreaties as best I can, on the off-chance I might survive long enough to have to pay it all back with exorbitant interest.   Henry's books . If you would like to deliver Drovers Gap blog directly to your email inbox, click here .

Just being...

Sometimes, a story begins like this, a fragment dropped into the mind from some never-seen place very close and far away...

Edward couldn’t remember when he first heard the voices. In the beginning, he didn’t even recognize them as voices, just random sounds at odd quiet moments, like wind or rain or tinnitus. Even when, after some time, they became warm and human and modulated as speech, he could not identify words, or any particular language. The voices flowed like a small stream through the back of his mind, a barely perceptible murmuring behind the ordinary events happening on the surface of his days. Eventually, the voices began to shape words he could understand, but they never spoke to him, they floated around in his awareness like a conversation overheard from the next room. Edward decided the past was not gone after all, that the dead, however long since they last breathed, were never quite dead.

...and sometimes, this is all there is, and the fragment gets filed away, maybe to appear again if provoked by some future surprise, or maybe to be forgot and eternally no more than it began. 

I hoard my fragments the way a quilter saves scraps of fabric. Even the ones that never prove useful to join a whole retain their partial, incomplete isness. There is beauty, sometimes, in just being.

Henry's books.

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