I understood that I had many important things to say. I wanted to say them. I had to say them. I was sure I could put it all together into a carefully controlled rant that lead to a masterful crescendo of rage and a call to action. On something, I was not sure what, maybe something political might catch my eye.

I realize now that a few days have passed and I still can't think of anything important enough to write about. I know many will scoff at this, pointing out that writing about not having anything to say is just silly. You're probably correct.

Topics could have been: American Education, Medical care, Employment, President Bush, The Iraq War, stuff like that.

Notice I'm only talking about myself?

I'm sitting here now, filled with a smooth lackadaisical attitude that bodes ill for political action. Philosophically I'm just slightly to the behind of laid-back hot tub. That simply means I'm lazy, for those who are curious.

I know many of my friends have argued that being invited to write on Blogcritics was a major opening to a new career move to becoming some kind of person who could sway others to action while at the same time not being able to sway myself into action. I guess that's ironic?

"You can do this, you can make this a way to influence others!" Dan paced the room arms flailing with each sentence. "You know you want to become well known, famous, even, this might be an opportunity to even get my name out there!" He panted from the exertion of being so excited. His eyes were wild.

Jill thought I could be a force for good, suggesting actions that could cause the downfall of nations. She was trying to think up a radical program for subversion, and was calling on all her mall-shopping friends for better suggestions.

I can only sigh at this, as you can well imagine, such talk is exceedingly tedious and fills me with a fear of doing something, anything that might result in something happening somewhere. How horrid would that be?

I'd really like to go back to sitting on a beach on Kauai, Hawaii.

There are some Japanese Pines there that make as nice calming whisper when you sit under them. The view is perfect for watching the surfers off the Waialua River. The breeze is perfect and you never get to hot under the shade of the trees.

Which unaccountably got me thinking about the demands that are made on artists in America.

You can play music on the radio, if it's classical music you can play only a movement if you want, but if it's a painting by Monet you cannot cut the canvas and keep only the part you really like.

All writing has to have a purpose, no visual art does, but movies must have a plot and be understandable unless they are experimental in which case the camera work is jiggly. Art must fit into a category, which has been devised for marketing, and has no aesthetic or philosophical justification except that it's easier to sell music in a labeled remaindered bin.