Let the Autodidactic Imbibing Begin (again)

Would it be better? Would it even be easier?

If someone else could be your master, and guru-like, tell you the wisdoms of your life and the learnings of the ages and then point out your particular path?

"Just follow the yellow brick road." Something like that. And there's only one set of yellow bricks to chose from in this scenario. Would that be easier ... or, if it were easier, would that be better?

No guru appeareth. Besides ... I think I'm allergic. So ... sans Guru, and upon observing the increase of oxygen in my body caused by my encounter with Anne Fadiman, I now procede to Nick Hornby. Essays? I ask myself. Essays are my form? (And what will I do with that if it's true? And it appears to be true and how silly is it to still be asking but I can't help it and this feels like learning so I have to keep on.)

If you had a good time at the dance, was it the music

or the company

or the gossip you heard

or the dress you were wearing

or the boy you were with

or the fact that you'd been previously imprisoned in a coal cellar and only recently released?

No way to know unless you explore music
and groups
and stories
and clothes
and dates with boys
and freedom
I suppose.

Come here, Mr. Hornby, would you please? I want very much to have a conversation with you. This isn't a date. But we can order dinner if you want to.

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