Sunday, January 17, 2010


Little has been written about waiting for lunch, one of the most important activities in modern life. The reasons for this lack are compound. Predominant among them perhaps is the fact that one is, after all, waiting for lunch, an activity that by its inherently obsessive nature precludes other forms of creative endeavor, such as putting the final touches to that unfinished symphony in the case of Franz Schubert; it is as well the reason so many of Monet's paintings remained mere impressions. For this is the time of day when the mind turns irresistably from merely creative or commercial concerns to profound meditations upon the Blue Plate Special. And if at such moments one should attempt anything creative, it comes to resemble in character the present short essay, in which fashion one could maunder at some additional length, but lunchtime is finally here.

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