Ghost Rider, again

Finally had a chance to pick up where I left off in Ghost Rider, over another finally: I’m finally starting to make good meals again. Having largely lost interest in cooking, it’s starting to come back. This is a very good thing, as I love eating, and I love cooking. Anyways …

So I’m having this back-and-forth regarding Neil Peart. I can’t decide whether he’s what *I* would be if I was absurdly wealthy, or whether he’s a spoiled rich kid with the chance to ignore reality. Perhaps those are the same thing. I’m not sure. Perhaps some day I’ll have the chance to find out. I should be so lucky.

So, over barbeque chicken and zin, I read the following:

… More reasons to treasure the memories of [important period in his life. Read the book. Not relevant for my ruminations.] I keep saying we were “spoiled,” but I guess that’s only so if you consider it being spoiled to have, like, a good life. Not hardly.

Is it such a bad thing to want to be happy? Hell, no. Everyone deserves to have their life not suck. But, unfortunately, so few people seem to achieve that. “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation,” quoth Thoreau. And I used to think, geez, that must suck for them. Yet, here I am, quietly desperate.

Oh, and I wanted to make note of another thing that Peart said, because it made a lot of sense to me, particularly in light of my recent forray into fiction writing.

Millions of thoughts spin out, all connected, like a tape unreeling, then as soon as I stop, all gone. Snap.

He’s talking about how, as he’s hiking, he’s writing the great book of his life. And then, somehow, when it comes to actually writing it, nothing happens. Yeah. That’s how it is. And so, alas, I’m stuck writing technical books, rather than the great stories that come to me as I hike, drive, or sleep, only to vanish when I sit down at the screen.

Well, I expect I could ramble more, but I’m not sure how long gnat is going to put up with my lateness. (Oh, on a very cool related note, Morbus apparently put a note in his new book, something like “Thanks to Ken and Rich for making me feel better. At least I’m not as late as you!”. You suck, Morbus.)

Please note, if you understood any of the above, you are very scary person, and should seek professional help.