It’s true.  I don’t know much about pleasure.  Not dining pleasures.  Or sexual pleasures. The rich ‘night-on-the-town’ pleasures.  Even simple aural pleasures, taking in a happy tune, seem hard to come by anymore.

That such is the case is as much a personal mystery to me as that the origin of the universe remains a cosmological mystery to physical scientists.  They, like I, speculate about, but have never truly experienced,  the Big Bang.  Well, that’s not exactly true.   Some of you out there I’ve come to know, to meet, to love, and cherish—if not always in the now, at least for one ‘big-now’ or two, and, at least by such happenstance, forever in the re-ever-birth. 

And I’ve know the Joy of Blogging, too.  Yes, for one, brief, shining moment, it seems, I held Xanga entirely my hands.  Like Ulysses gripping the Golden Fleece.  Like a medieval alchemist examining the Philospher's Stone.  Xanga was then but an infant, and I had become, by peer acclamation (though never unanimity), the alpha-male hereupon entrusted with the depths of knowing.  I was supposed to know.  And I did know.  I surely did.  But what?   It would be sophistically clever of me to say that ‘I knew that I knew nothing.’  But that would be pure bullcrap.   I did know.  But the Sirens of forgetfulness have so surgically assuaged my scant acuity that I now find myself in utterly almost unknowing disbelief. 

But I did know.  Truly.  Fully.  And I still treasure, in trust, your love.