Where is my wish list boast?  My dream ship host?   My making of the most?

Things were better when I lived in my childing imagination more.  There, even if there wasn’t actuality, there was inspiration.  There was poetry.  For the envisaging, for the feeling, for the writing.

Here, in the land of the purported real and actual, there’s only desolation and the chance to encounter the ultimate bane of all existence.

Fine, perhaps.  It’s the path I seem to have chosen.  When, at the momentous instance of becoming in my youth, the Trickster asked me what I wanted to be, I replied “ a warrior poet”.  But the Trickster cackled back at me: “You can only be one thing.  And you said ‘warrior’ first  And I’m allowed to make the rules.  And that’s the rule I just made for you.”

And I didn’t protest at that moment with sufficient vociferousness.

So I’ve been battling that bastard Trickster ever since.  For that’s what a warrior does: battle.  Yet to defeat the Trickster would be to prove him wrong.  To become that poet, too. 

Now, being not only the damnedestly most intrepid warrior on nether-Earth, but cursed with a strange form of wilely intelligence nethertheless, I strive to regain my Trickster-dissed muse.  Here in the land of the purported real and actual.   I wish to become the bane of my own poetic desolation.

I shared this vision here 4 years ago.  At the onset of an adventure, is there not often enthusiasm and idealism?

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.

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.  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.  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*.  So the timeline of expression invites a timeline of response—and thus the blog is woven as a form for all to see.  Hence blogging distinguishes itself as a most genuine form of expression—and is utterly artistic at its height—when it creates community.

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

But 4 years later, I now realize this vision was flawed.  Blogging is clearly just a social tool, not an artistic one.  Though it can deliver artistic content, so too theoretically could a well-done mail-order catalog or a bottle on the sea carrying a poem scribed upon parchment inside.  Blogging is the bottle.  The internet's the ocean.  I'm inside looking out.

I will give it this, though: Someday, a well-known and famous author will

admit that if it wasn't for blogging, that first novel would never have been written. 

Hey, that author could be you.

Easter 2005

• I got up pre-dawn to deliver my daughter’s basket to her room while she yet slept (photo in post below).
  
• Went to the office to play the role of ‘federal cyber-cop’ and installed a server intrusion detection sensor in Pittsburgh (remotely) on a proxy server.
  
• Tested the sensor's agent by intruding.  The agent detected me—it worked!  Then remembered that I wasn’t exactly alone in cyberspace and that my intrusion was certainly showing up on others’ ‘radars’, too.  So I called New York to calm the waters and identify myself as the hacker attacking my own remote server.
  
• Went to Dreamland and ran 7 miles.   Though cool by strolling standards, I was able to build up a sweat and fantasize a flux of summer warmth.
  
• Set upright a pot of Easter lilies that was imitating a corpse by assuming the horizontal position.
  
  
  

  

  
  
  
• Still in Dreamland, started this narrative.  Not running, but leaning up against the granite obelisk (opposite side from the lilies) with a chill breeze from the east, it’s a little harder to fantasize a cockering warmth.  Though the laptop battery expending itself on my lap feels oh-so good.
  
• What’s blogging in Dreamland without drinking a beer.  So popping the top.
  
• Searching for that intensity.  Needing more of that intensity.  Off to seek intensity.

My daughter made it clear to me the other night that she only wants an Easter basket from me until she's 50 years old.  29 more years: I'm nearly off the hook.

shhhh!  She's still sleeping.

They don't call it Lake "E(e)rie" for nothing.

And the really exciting thing is, that having just bought new Nike Running shoes, I have the opportunity to go running this afternoon.  And forget about the Land of Undreams.

It gets even better (or worse): for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death (and even beyond extraordinary unpresidential-bush-failed intervention on behalf of his lackey brother-governor-bush's ideological vegetable interjection)  us do part, so help me Egg.

note: the tower of Pres. Garfield's monument semi-looms thitherground.

woohoo - the vernal equinox is upon us!  Time to balance...

My greatest weakness: I have a tremendous propensity to inject myself fully into my own fantasies.

My greatest strength: I have a tremendous propensity to extract myself fully from my own fantasies.

My greatest truth: I am nothing more than the aggregation of successive injection/extractions.

Current state: satori.

Oh, happy whatever it is.

I'm tottering on battered and abused legs but I'm going to run like a lost hermit in Dreamland again today.  Because?   Because I've nothing better to do other than drive my libido into numinous submission.

~not my writing~

(2-day old photo - this iceworld of the suppressed spring is now almost till next winter gone.)

I just realized that I'm the only one who's not  'the One'.  You know: Neo, The Matrix.  The One.  You all saw the movie. You all felt at one with the One. Once upon that time.

But not me.

Instead, I'm just part of the ever-redefining elusive Flux.  You know, the drunken photons dispatched from the Sun for improbable earth impact.

Wham.

Okay, so what?  Somewhere on the shore of Never, I've been tethered forever.

*kiss* upon anyone who also lands on this rock.

I heard a weatherman this morning call it “anemic sunshine”.   But I see it as crystal firelight—this growing incandescence in the northern mid-latitudes that nonetheless seems not to warm the air much (highs only in the 20s yesterday and today) due to deviant polar jet streams and Alberta clippers that keep punching Spring in the gut.  But the shine of sun is not gloomful or dysenergetic.  The dragged-out winter-like blues are the result of the snow and concomitant cold that’s now alien, lost and doomed.  Where throughout the winter the earth numbly succumbed, now it’s steadily rejecting the blanket meteorological sedimentation it’s yet unseasonably getting subjected to.  It’s melting the snow from underneath.  Slowly, true.  Phase change from ice to water, due to what’s described as the latent heat of fusion, requires 160 more times the energy than is required in the pre-phase change to heat ice up a single degree.  Still, the firelight has found earth and is seducing the crystals into slush, one by one, under the outlander cover that’s queered above. One fucking crystal at a time!

The sun was so bright yesterday that I can still visualize most every step of my entire run around Dreamland (7 times).  How dark was my shadow crushing the ground.  How uplifting the crystal firelight bouncing under foot.

Hey, I’m the shadowman again.  And the Sun has my back.

There's a psychic storm with a weirding potential underway.  I'm beginning to believe.

I'm thirsty .  Figure here that right after I post this I'll be making a trip to the supermarket to buy several gallons of assorted juices.

Oh.  And I'm tired of drinking beer.  Or drinking anything alcoholic for that matter.  Actually, since my friend Mike left for a job in Arizona in the fall, I've not found another drinking buddy who makes good company.  So maybe it's time to start hanging out at the wifi hotspot coffeshop more often.

Of course, I'm still running in Dreamland.  I ran 5 miles earlier and felt great afterwards.  On the way out of the cemetery, I came upon the 'blank tombstone' where people are actually encouraged to chalk an epitaph.

This made me feel especially good about my run.  It's the kind of silly thing that may well stick in my head and inspire me to act to the very most contrary.  After all, I don't need no stinkin' Love Machine.

Just another chilled-out moment here in life-love-land:

Ha! It's Thursday already.  But what's Thursday?  Thor's Day.
Mother-f-ing Thor.
Let's get matrixly brutal. 
Let's godly romp and to tomorrow's tomorrow regally roll.

Now.  If I can only fulfill that vision.

But, without help, I can tell you I'll be wasted by noon on Saturn's
Day.  And be baked liked pudding by time the day of the Sun sneaks
upon.

Wow...I have this eerie sense of impending distancing and dissolution. I can't be more exact-just a sense of things floating or falling away. Is this just an echo of my own inner uncertainties? Uncertainties that, even though I try to pin down, I can't give a name to? Or like some wild animals that can sense an imminent earthquake just before the earth shakes, do I have a read on something real and beyond me? Precipice. Precipice is the word that hangs on the tip of my tongue. Why does this notion of cliff-hanging over a sheer abyss envelop my mind like a fog? Just so…even so…or, perhaps, especially so…I hear a whisper of caution, and then move on. Sink deeper into my instincts and still move on.

Running alone in Dreamland last evening
I dreamt of the way the world could be:
What's more honest than simple moments of sunset
and dreams carried with the wind?
They thus came together for me.
And I heard a wolf whisper, though none could be seen:
“It’s the time of getting-strong.”

What's nanotechnology?

Imagine having an aerosol spray bottle filled with minute remotely-controllable webcams that you can spray anywhere or on anything and  have them instantly start broadcasting to preconfigured websites or blogs.  That's one of the wild promises of nanotechnology.  Scary, huh?!

And what's this?

Of course, I'm cynical about politics.  Campaigns roll out blogs to portay their candidate as cyber-savvy and with the crowd.  But what happens when the campaign ends?

If you're the winner, your blog, georgwbush.com/blog , now redirects to the main GOP portal page.  No blog remains at all!

If you're the loser, your blog, blog.johnkerry.com , remains.  But hasn't been updated since the day of doom. 

***

Spring is here.   Not a lot of warmth yet, but the days are stretching out - about 2 to 3 minutes longer succeedingly.  I'm now alert to and looking for faces (flowers) floating out of the ground...

***

Whatever happened to the clout of cartoons?  Once was, on Satruday mornings, every channel had cartoons.  Granted, there were only a few channels, no cable, but cartoons had a monopoly.  Kids totally ruled. 

Nowadays, though there are entire channels dedicated to 24-7 cartooning, the Saturday morning monopoly's been broken.  Seems that kids are just a part of the media market and not to be over-indulged.  Ah well, to have been a part of something that was once in the life!

***

I got hold last week of an early (insider) release of uncirculated "Westward Journey" nickels.

And I've been handing one or two of them out to practically everybody I meet.  Hey, I'm now the 'Nickel Guy'.   I always knew some day that I'd have a claim to fame. 

Dreamland, in the grip of a wintry spring, is virutally a virgin to my feet..

I’m pretty damn sure, right now in the whence and where, that I have a plethora of amazing insights to share.  (Perhaps?)   Or even a  shit (shitload) to divvy up if insights are too refined for your world outlook.  Problem is that I have practically no time, no presence to be at all, no temporally-reserved singularly devotable instance of cavalcading impregnable rhyme to  fit into preformed slots of online existence, or even to nfp. (yes, I just made ‘nfp’ an intransitive  verb—oh fuck, what does ‘intransitive’ imply anyway?)—if you know what I mean.  .  Anyway, if you have some spare time available and are willing to  shush with me,  I’ve got an  over-ripe blogload  ready to shunt with   you.. 

If only I could write, and love, and disappear into the Blogosphere. But then…what of flesh and sustenance?

  my first phoneblog - 2 years ago.

And you know what's sad?  I can't remember my first (or even totally passionate last) kiss.  But I can remember exactly where I was and even what I was looking at when I first phoneblogged home.  I guess I have a blogger's memory:  Here today and still here today.