Inconsequent Nonsense is raw Americana. We are, one and all, embedded in North American ways of living. We think and act as our forebearers' preferred, for good or ill. We add to their mix our own benighted preferences. America emerges. Sometimes we pause in our hurtle to inspect the neighborhood. This little tome is one such stock-taking. Like all such works, the result trends toward the local and personal. This book convenes a spectrum of snippets: newspaper articles, city council talks, remembrances, selections from the ...
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Inconsequent Nonsense is raw Americana. We are, one and all, embedded in North American ways of living. We think and act as our forebearers' preferred, for good or ill. We add to their mix our own benighted preferences. America emerges. Sometimes we pause in our hurtle to inspect the neighborhood. This little tome is one such stock-taking. Like all such works, the result trends toward the local and personal. This book convenes a spectrum of snippets: newspaper articles, city council talks, remembrances, selections from the author's works, obituaries, theological ruminations, elegies, advice, and photos. These stories dissolve into the torrent that is America at its several precipices: overpopulation, climate change, cruelty, machine intelligence. At root, the author sings a hymn to some dogs who loved him. He thanks a few of the people who lent support or interest to existence. Deep in this detritus of words, one savors the loam in which an American life rooted. From that soil sprouted a shape of life--perhaps a life, if one tallies its joys and pains, not so very different from your own.
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