Back in late 2000, there were only a few hundred of us here.  Things were different then.  Quite amazing, really.  Like a small town, you could get a grip on everything happening.  And your voice rang vital because, like a pebble tossed into a small pond, the ripple reached, raced everywhere.

Things, of course, will never be as such again.  Long before Xanga dwindles back to the comfiness of "just thousands", the huge sums of money currently expended on a monthly basis to purchase bandwidth and maintain infrastucture will dictate a shutdown.  With an operation now as big as Xanga is, certain costs are fixed and can't be scaled back even if participation drops.  So at some some threshold of falling participation, it becomes time to flip the switch.

Makes you wonder...

Of course.  Kids, kid-bloggers, returning to school will "save" Xanga again.  Won't they?

haha, right now at 9 in the morning, Xanga's a bit quiet: only 600 peeps updating per minute.

The clouds intervene.

Sun is obscured.

Desire takes hold, but she’s not here.

I have another beer.

Imagine being a house painter of a distant age, several hundreds of years ago. And having someone with a psychic bent now run around your graveyard.  That someone sniffing the very few residual molecules of your trailing paint, getting dizzy-high, realizing  that you were once a house painter.

 

How many extant chips of the fine paint you once lavished both interior and exterior decors with yet adhere to surfaces?

 

The running psychic imagines a few chips here and there.  Peeling.  Scattered.  Gone.

 

Might it have been better to be a pyramid builder?  So that at least some appreciable remnant would yet remain?

 

Or an artist?  So that your work would have a better chance to fare longer in a museum or some appreciating collector’s home?

 

Most of your brushes never survived you.  You never survived some of your work.  All is no match for time.

 

tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow…

 

+++

 

“The early bird catches the worm.”

 

Yes, but the earlier worm avoids the bird.

 

+++

 

yesterday (5 miles), and the day before (5 miles), and the day before that (5 miles)…

 

(the runner runs, the psychic punks along.)

 

Ask you what you may.  Where to?  Whence from? 

 

Enjoy the exchange on the multi-direction, omni-dimensional cosmic shuttle.

 

+++

 

But I thought I heard the painter remark just now:  “What a fox!   I’d fuck her.”

 

Really?  Is that possible?  Do you see what I see?  (shall see, just saw?)

 

 

Dreamland...

                                                                  ...dreamer.

I’m seem to have misplaced my data cable for wireless at-large in-the-field access to the Internet.  So though in Dreamland (aka LakeView Cemetery), I’ll post later rather than immediately after writing as I usually do.

 

It’s been a long, hard-driving week.  I was supposed to be in California for work-related training all week, but my third scheduled training class this year just fell through.  Seems like “Java Security” is not popular enough anywhere to warrant teaching.  Here’s the typical scenario: The classes are offered.  I sign up.  I end up being the only one who signs up.  So the class gets cancelled. 

 

Oh look!  The dragonflies (unchanged since the Cenozoic) are being promiscuous upon the hillside in the early evening sunlight once again.  Along with the bird-dinosaurs naughtily flitting to and fro, it’s quite the Jurassic Park mood-scene I’m here experiencing now.   Oh, where’s the cavewoman that I will to appear and club me over the head and then drag me of by the hair to her lair for an irresistibly primal affair? 

 

Wait.  I forget.  I’ve no grabbable hair. 

 

Okay, she can drag me off by something else then.  And see if I care.

 

*looks up at the previous three paragraphs*

 

What kind of libidinal outburst was that? 

 

I”ll tell you what kind.  One that’s thoroughly confounded by the present and so breaches time.  Backwards.  But forwards, too.  Ah, forwards….

 

Death by impetuous kisses overflowing the buffer of my time-probing impulsive masculinity.

 

update: Back home under cover of night.  I just ate some Ramen chicken (dinosaur) noodle soup and feel much more enlightened now.

After having run through a barrage of days of 90-degree tropical humidity-type weather, it was finally just a pleasure today to run in 85-degrees and 20% humidity.  So much so that I tacked on a couple of extra miles and stretched it out to 7.  heh, on my last lap I caught up with a couple of young girls who were running ahead of me.  When I run, I can be such a simple guy that I found it a genuine thrill just to say “hi” to them and then go on paving my own solitary way.

 

Now (right now) I rest after the run.  It’s just a perfect summer day as I watch three dragonflies skirmish-play above the hills of Dreamland.

 

In the distance, there’s what I assume is an ice cream truck playing the theme from “The Sting”.  The music is just about as loud as the birds in the trees nearby and wafts in and out with the breeze.

 

Oh, now the ice cream truck has been drowned-out by the bellowing rumble of a train passing about a mile away.  Oh well, I didn’t want any ice cream anyway.

 

*sips on beer*

 

You know, as I just closed my eyes here in Dreamland and “looked” towards the Sun, I lost track of both locality and temporality.  Yaqui sorcerers  used to call such “a shift in the assemblage point of perception.”  I call it sailing through the heliosphere by letting the solar wind inflate one's sail.  Or getting lost in the vast incandescing Ocean of Incalescence. 

 

That's my story:  Always lost.  And on the run.

I realize that about 97% of you end up here “accidentally.”

 

(That's absolutely true.  And I've written and maintain my own "tracker" to compile such statistics.)

 

Yet it really is no accident.  Doom is a loose motherfucker who has your number.

 

But lest that sound harsh, I’d like to take a moment to apologize for the imposition that is this blog.

 

Of course, if you didn’t land here after executing some inane script, you’d probably end up on top of a fly who’s atop a pile of shit.

 

So, really, you should thank me for the oasis that I maintain for your transient benefit.

 

There. Thanks for bearing with me.  Now back to my regularly scheduled outbursts of genius.

 

Since Earth decided over the past several days to let it rain significantly where I reside for the first time in what I’d guess to be a month…

 

I’ve run in a thunderstorm.

I’ve played in a puddle.

I’ve taken again to watching plant life (wild flower-weeds) crazy abloom with their mysterious irrepressible strangeness.

 

I’ve no use for lawns.  I don’t play golf.  Unlike Forrest Gump, I don’t have a tractor to drive around.  And orderlieness does not become me.

 

If you’re a “lawn person,” we have one less thing in common.

 

My advice: Join the lawnless universe, relinquish control, and let the wild things grow.

 

Environmental Headlines

 

There’s a heatwave in the Arctic…

 

And a plague of locusts invading France…

 

It hasn’t rained in Portugal since October and fires rage across the land…

  

The seas around the world have risen dramatically recently from melting glaciers…

 

Meanwhile, Bush administration ideologues continue to harass climate scientists who’ve provided proof of global warming. 

I've been blogging virtually all this week.  Webless.  In my my mind.



It's not necessarily better that way.  Just sometimes necessary.  And better than nothing at all.



So I post without a word.  Comment without a visit.  Imagine without a keyboard.



Blogs are written, read, forgotten.



It's only the Golden Eternity.

It comes down to this:

 

Either you submit to fulfilling your dark, lower, base desires.

Or you get high -(er).

When
I was a child, my Aunt Jean used to admonish me to stay out of the
grilling summer sun by saying: “Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out
into the noon day sun.”

It was either “go out” or “sit out” or “stay out”.  Pick one.

 

Here I am just after a 5-mile 90 degree run today:

 

 

 

I’ve finally come to realize, after all, that I’m not an Englishman.

(Yes, I'm blogging from Dreamland again.)

Don't forget when you look at the stars to envision the Sun there among.

5-year Xanga Caveat:

If your life is going nowhere, is fucked-up, is stagnating and searching for an answer here or hereabouts, or just ends-up here because you've overly sucked upon the linked (hyper) Matrix, don't blame me. 

Fornever: I'm untorn.

I've gone fishing.  Or maybe I'm just rebirthing in the Land of the Jolly Green Dead.

You can, of course (to me, or whomever you go off to primp and self-proselytize),  be (or not be) cool. 

But, regardless,  please to thy own (for thine own) self be true.

I’ve lived a rugged life. 

But to lay my head upon warm stone and lay back in the sun.

But to run and thirst and satisfy that thirst only for one more run.

But to take delusion by the horns and wrestle it to the ground.

But to watch the storms roll in, lay siege, and with full fury pound.

But to gaze upward into the clear night sky in wonder of all the restless sights.

But to impose my will upon myself and defeat the enemy without a fight.

 

Without a fight, you ask?

Have you never heard that she who conquers herself has slain the equivalent of ten thousand enemy upon the battlefield?

And, of course, the sky is restless.  O inconstant moon, Juliet?  O fusion stellar dynamos ever pulsing bright, dear Montague?

Never seen an F5, half a hell-mile wide?  Or run in the forest with lightning striking all around, branches falling ahead and behind?

What happens when you realize the intimacy is fatuous after all?   Back to the forest?

Or just lean against an old tombstone and let Sol play you solitaire?

Now the NASA JPL Deep Impact crashing rendevous last night with Tempel 1 comet was cool, wasn't it?!

They say they did it for pure science, research into the origins of the planetary system.

But my guess is that they also needed to know if they could simulate a nuclear take-out of a comet, asteroid, or other Near Earth Oblject (NEO) otherwise destined for your backyard (that's correct: not mine, yours).

And that's exactly how I now like my fireworks: far, far away.

Though when younger, I used to truly enjoy things that boomed and spanged with a smash: 

aka...

...and i, too, a maniac!
a real fucking yankee doodle maniac!
up now with sufficient wine
and out to the backyard
with assorted red, white, and blue cherry bombs,
mosaicing Old Glory in potent resplendence
my prize Ohioan humus rose garden.
then   ignite!      and:
earth and flower petals
in a grand simultaneous-exploding     jack—a—room!    delight.
o, joyous good American smoke and dust!
and i, then, dancing the earth with the drunken tears
of a flag-loving, fist-waving patriot, screaming:
jack—a—room!         jack—a—room!
may you ever boom!, America
long may you boom!

But anymore, I've developed an emotional distance from booms, bangs, and blasts.  They remind me too sentimentally of sex, or more properly, the distant memory called 'sex'. Yep, just about as far away as Tempel 1 now, I'd say.

i’m no longer concerned with ‘what was going to be’.

it either is,

or is

of no matter to me.