The Windmills of Certainty

E very so often, I get in these contemplative moods, where I attempt to merge the writing styles of Eco, Tom Robbins, and Richard Feynman into a conceptual goo to coat the veneer of consciousness itself, in an attempt to expand it. But, I surmise for some, this is just word salad left out to rot in the UV rays emanating from the solar disc that helps life perpetuate itself. It’s not just the light that is cast upon us something resembling wisdom, but the shadows that get cast upon the heart. Maybe this is brooding... S t. Augustine is a particular “hero” of mine. I’m not keen on hero worship, but hero respect, for one of the greatest evils is the tyranny of should, a.k.a., fanaticism. But, I do have a relic of him given to me by my mother. I bring up Augustine because here was a man – at least until his conversion to the faith after reading the biography of St. Anthony of the Desert – who was a chronic narcissist. In his teenage years, he is what we would call today a sexual addic