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‘Coruscated Confabulations’ is a collection of 27 separate flights of existential exploration, each dealing with specific elements and characters that may be true, imagined, or perhaps a combination of both qualities. Spanning at least 40 years of life, they serve as a testiment to the ultimate futility of human existence, yet at the same time to our incredibly persistent (and all too human) refusal to accept what may be the ultimate truth: that there simply is no truth…that the journey through the human life experience is merely what each of us adds to that physical voyage we all must make, from birth to death. The author has been forced to conclude that what we call ‘love’ is more a matter of instinctual, hard-wired biological programming and that the automatic genetic codes our bodies follow largely dictate much of what our brains, in their feeble attempts to make some sense of it all, interpret to meet our own expectations. Best read with a sizeable glass of Martell Cordon Bleu Cognac at hand, the comfortable warmth of a husky dog by one’s side, snow falling gently outside one’s window and the primeval encouragement of a cozy hearthfire. Music is optional, but Mendlessohn is helpful, interspersed with cuts from the Guckenheimer Sour Kraut Band.
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‘Coruscated Confabulations’ is a collection of 27 separate flights of existential exploration, each dealing with specific elements and characters that may be true, imagined, or perhaps a combination of both qualities. Spanning at least 40 years of life, they serve as a testiment to the ultimate futility of human existence, yet at the same time to our incredibly persistent (and all too human) refusal to accept what may be the ultimate truth: that there simply is no truth…that the journey through the human life experience is merely what each of us adds to that physical voyage we all must make, from birth to death. The author has been forced to conclude that what we call ‘love’ is more a matter of instinctual, hard-wired biological programming and that the automatic genetic codes our bodies follow largely dictate much of what our brains, in their feeble attempts to make some sense of it all, interpret to meet our own expectations. Best read with a sizeable glass of Martell Cordon Bleu Cognac at hand, the comfortable warmth of a husky dog by one’s side, snow falling gently outside one’s window and the primeval encouragement of a cozy hearthfire. Music is optional, but Mendlessohn is helpful, interspersed with cuts from the Guckenheimer Sour Kraut Band.