And Still It Is

Ye gods. Belatedly, I notice, wordpress, informing me, that I have inscribed 1019 posts, to this blog.

That’s since August 2008.  A little over five years. Roughly, then, 200 posts a year.

Ye gods. What’s become of me? What might I otherwise have accomplished, if not pounding my pud here?

Probably, maybe, might: have built a pyramid.

Not that I didn’t: here: try.

But, no matter. What’s done/not-done is done/not-done. Blood flowed in great creeping weeping clots, under the bridge.

Probably—and particularly as humans are so enamored of round numbers—there should have been, here, here on red, a 1000th-post celebration. With party hats, and streamers, and maybe a drunk, pissing in the corner.

But it’s too late, for any of that now.

Instead, I shall inscribe, late, again, the very first post ever entered onto this blog. August 1, 2008. Standing, still, to me, as a perfect expression of the yearning futile yearning futile yearning experience of human beings, on this here planet.

When Sir Walter Raleigh was imprisoned in the Tower of London, he occupied himself with writing a history of the world. He had finished the first volume and was at work on the second when there was a scuffle between some workmen beneath the window of his cell, and one of the men was killed. In spite of diligent enquiries, and in spite of the fact that he had actually seen the thing happen, Sir Walter was never able to discover what the quarrel was about: whereupon, so it is said—and if the story is not true it certainly ought to be—he burned what he had written and abandoned his project.

—George Orwell

And, in very belated response, to the sole comment posted, to that very first post of mine—”is the world so unrelievedly bleak from your tower?”—the answer is: no.

No. Not at all.

Because, sometimes, I am at that place. By the river. I can hear the boats go by. I can spend the night forever. And the sun pours down like honey. On our lady of the harbor. And she shows me where to look. Amid the garbage and the flowers.

And then: it matters not. That I was broken. Long before the sky would open. That I am forsaken. Almost human. That I sink beneath your wisdom. Like a stone.

For there are heroes in the seaweed. There are children in the mourning. And we’re leaning out for love. And we will lean that way. Forever.

While Suzanne: holds: the mirror.

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2 Responses to “And Still It Is”


  1. 1 Julia Rain (the deviant daughter) December 7, 2013 at 1:51 am

    Congratulations! (also, is it ever too late for party hats and streamers? I think not) I think you are building pyramids here, in a sense. I hope you continue.

    • 2 bluenred December 8, 2013 at 2:23 am

      You’re right: party hats and streamers, these are indicated always.

      And you’re right, too, about the pyramids. Good for you. ; )


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