Essay / Avant-Garde

Decliration of DaddyLand

Here is a little glimpse of what an intense writing schedule apparently looks like to the fourth-grader who shares the home with the busy scholar.
The thing on the (awesome retro-modernist) table is a small scroll containing the Decliration of DaddyLand. What Daddy has to declire is unclear, as is what LAND he will rule. But that he was up all night, any fourth grader can see.

The author appears somewhat haggard and unkempt. His hair especially needs some kemping, but even the lines on his shirt are sore a-frayed. Those pants, they might just be jeggings. He has a short sword hanging at his side, because writing is a battle and he is, to quote Martin Sheen, Brawndo, and President Obama, WINNING. Winning at life, winning the future, winning at things it doesn’t even make sense to win at.

Thus the swagger, the arms akimbo, the hint of contrapposto, the plucky poise that declires, “I am not going to fall over, I’m leaning like this for expressive purposes.”

And a little close-up on the visionary gleam in the eyes of the writer.
Merciful Minerva! Shave your chin, kemp your hair, and straighten your glasses, man. When in the course of human events you meet these deadlines, you’ll be glad you came through it with such evident elan and savoir-faire.

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