And then I'll need to scurry back to my bubble covey
all perplexed about why tickles turn into pricks, yet
awaiting a double or triple bubble birth which will
take me for my next ride.

Sharp things are anathema. So if you put me on a bed of
pins, I'll burst! *Plop*

So I'm just your harmless bubble boy, which you can tap
around, blow around--just like a toy.

There's a deep tickle inside, and it is so harmless
that I allow it to bubble up and so here I am.

Good vibes--or that by any other name--require the
sentience which I know we share. The sharing is good
and the capacity to do so, sweet. I am tickled sitting
here writing to you.

but she's better than this hero with secrets

and more
exotic than this dreamed alien:

she's a pureblooded
girl in touch with herself

a rarity, a woman, my
friend.

and don't underestimate her raw power

physicality to
her is not strange

if you'd try to mess, she'd get the
best

wrestling ya to the ground half-deranged.

with a display of beauty daunting

she'd embarrass all
who frown

and adorn the world with a taunting

when
they'd try to hold her down.

with an intellect so piercing

she'd see through all
the crap.

then direct me ever so safely

away from
heartache traps.

with energy unrivaled

she'd dash the lifeless trash


out of all the rituals so feeble

that cause my mind
to crash.

i'd play the puer aeternus

living life in the moment
of now,

she'd be a puella forever

forsworn to youth
like a vow.

i wish she were a secret hero

or some alien from
another land

then i could just hang out with her


like the lost boys with peter pan.

That being said, may I now add: let us all welcome
ourselves to this expressive insurgency!

Hence blogging distinguishes itself as a most genuine
form of expression—and is utterly artistic at its
height—when it creates community.

So the timeline of expression invites a timeline of
response—and thus the blog is woven as a form for all
to see.

But the highest form of blogging always invites
response: the initial post is one hand posed awaiting
the second hand, the comment, which issues the *clap*
or sometimes the *smack* or sometimes a chaos of
*slaps*, *hugs*, and *gawks*.

The best of posts, uncommented, remains the haunting
one hand clapping in the forest—which is a rare and
ethereal accomplishment: a pure essence of expression,
standing by itself, pristine, an incontrovertible
entity.

Though like a journal in having a timeline that flows
like a river carrying fluid thoughts to the sea, the
key to this art form (dare I say that?) is its
performance: its interactivity.

Is blogging a new and emerging
literary/graphical/(perhaps even audible) art form?
Should it, will it rank among other genre of recognized
expression such as the novel, the essay, the poem, the
sketch? Will the “Art of Blogging” be a credited
English course in tomorrow's universities (surely, the
kiss of death) ?



I dare to struggle and say: yes.

The morning comes to consciousness

Of faint stale
smells of beer

From the sawdust-trampled street


With all the muddy feet that press

To early
coffee-stands.

With the other masquerades

That time
resumes,

One thinks of all the hands

That are
raising dingy shades

In a thousand furnished rooms.




--T.S. Eliot

I am no prophet -- and here's no great matter;

I have
seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have
seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,


And in short, I was afraid.



--T.S. Eliot

And I have asked before, as you have undoubtedly
wondered yourself, *Can I blog after I die, or must I
anticipate departure with a final posting goodbye?*




That depends...on Machine.

Most people live out life as a given experience, but I
have embaraced live as a self-chosen experiment. Join
me.

Every moment of a well-lived life is a revelation. And
all comes as a surprise.

Aphorisms be damned. As well as pontificating sermons.
I seek my true voice. Listen.

All of it me! All of it so becoming a fulfillment so
becomingly!

...all of it shared with an open heart and the deepest
sense of intimate relatedness.

All of it dangerous, all of it beautiful ...