It behooves those of us who are occasional (or inveterate) DownWard LifeLiving Bloggers (you should try *that* yoga position first thing in the morning -- after two peach yogurts and a 16 ounce coffee) to warn readers, even when readership numbers are in decline. Warn them with words, sure, but no one is reading! So draw them a picture, right? But Google emits a spine-jarring alarm when I upload Rothko-ripped-off watercolors or scan my finelytraced but thick-lined Manga comic strips.
I'm just trying to warn these good folk that gushy, heartfelt stuff will be posted later today. I had it already written and ready to post, but then saw the video of John Edwards' l'il mea culpa, complete with wavering voice and perfected accent, his damnable reference to children. Personally, I was way releaved to learn that he was responsible for his sins, and not me, or his parents, or his personal progeny, or the odd John-Edwards-needin' street urchin -- any of "us" dead or alive, acknowledged or unacknowledged. Heck, he even successfully buried the distinctions between the known and the unknown.
Published on May 31, 2012 by AssociatedPress
Well, his parents look pretty darned wiped out, but John Edwards is right: God is in no way through with him.
Jesus H. Christ. The television Talking Head just informed me that a 7-year-old and a 12-year-old boy both hanged themselves due to constant bullying. Not together, silly, not even in the same burgh. One was made fun of because of his height and because his father was dead. The Head that is Talking made a smooth segue by mentioning his network's immediate investigation into the rarity of kids that young offing themselves. He and his network were comforted to learn it was rare, "rare, indeed." Well, dip my paci, my binky, my suckaroo in some milky bourbon and give me a soft yoga mat to curl up on for nap time.
I'm doing a great job.
Do I have to be a Young Poet for Rainer Maria Rilke to have been speaking to me? It's not that I need motivation; It's really, and I'm sure you'll agree, quite the opposite. If I could not write, would I die? Of course I would! What a silly, silly question. That's mostly Rilke's value to Kappus -- you silly, silly baby you, you keep asking the wrong questions, or keep lobbing the same awful ones back to my impenetrably strong backstroke side, inviting that occasional sharp, inevitable down-the-line winner. (You don't believe that Kappus published ALL Rilke's letters, do you?)
It's snobbery, pure and simple.
Facile snobbery, too, which means it's even more insulting than your average elitism.
Oops. I forgot. I'm here, now, as are you, now, in order to feel better in advance of... well, whatever comes next. So, here, Friend, have some beatitudes, fill in the holes, the lacunae, of sin. There's no better chin-chucker in the world than a good, top-eight beatitude. Eight voids, all shoveled in, dirt matched in color and texture to the surrounding grains, four evils, four sorrows. The seven deadly sins are more familiar, the tune catchier, but who the heck wants to be belting that out on their death bed, or even in the shower? So pay attention, believe, and for God's sake, cheer up.
Uploaded by lanningck on Sep 17, 2010