A cloud of unintentional irony hangs over my last post (damn those unintentional clouds!) There I was admonishing my readers for forgetting my name, only to forget myself and disappear from the face of this blog for a fair handful of days (did you miss me?) The title, thus, turned itself from frustrated jibe to worthy call. Where are you Georgy?
Here, it turns out, I am – none the worse for my brief absence, if not a little ’empty in the head’. As usual, there is a tower of books to review; a wall of issues to break through and a pile of pernicious tittle-tattle to dismiss: but my enthusiasm for the task leans like an old bicycle against the railings of apathy (or is it the lamp-post of impassivity? I know not which). Truth be told, the literary world wears one down. One feels like the first step outside of an ancient church: endlessly trodden on; worn down to within an inch of one’s being. I exaggerate, perhaps (in fact, I am larger than I ever was, size-wise). But we all wilt, a little, at times, do we not?
It is at times like these, of course, that one is apt to entertain one’s anxieties. I set the table and in they come. Worry and Fear at the head of the table, dishing out the cold meats. Botheration at the bottom, with Doubt, his date. They’re all there. Foreboding in his top hat; Uncertainty fumbling with a fork. Will I join them? I have no choice. I’m on the menu.
Why worry? Why indeed? It will pass, it always does. Come the morrow, I will be more excited than ever at the prospect of writing a few hundred words on the future of Latvian poetry. I have suffered a general lack of interest in my work for a long while now – and it has never yet eaten me down to the bones. I have, in fact, come to enjoy it. Obscurity is nothing to fear. One can cuddle up to it, I’ve found: it keeps one warm on winter nights (heaven knows why).