Apologies

My sincerest apologies to anyone who actually reads this blog, that I still have yet to fulfill my promise of writing my defense of Comey, and just posting in general.  I assure you, I have been working on it, when I can.  As you know, I do not here divulge of personal details – and besides, this time there are some federal legal reasons to motivate my usual tight-lippedness – so all I can say is, there has been quite the hustle and bustle in my life the past several weeks.  (Actually, the past several months; or maybe I should just say, most of the past year.)  And I am not one who can usually easily shift mental gears, so it has been a bit of a challenge finding the mental focus to be able to write.  Especially since the many other things swirling about my life are actually somewhat important, and have the tendency to be slightly urgent.  But what tops the cake is that, four days ago, my iMac died – for good this time, as the HD was clicking, so that's that, and I did get 10.5 years out of it, so, it was time, and I am hoping, hoping, a new iMac is plausibly possible soonishly – followed the next day by the onset of a particularly horrendous version of the common cold, which has not yet quite passed. 

But anyway, there is a lot going on for me, but I can make a better effort to post here, and I know that I ought to.  It does pain me that I regularly have so many thoughts, so many things to say, so many things to share, that yet remain confined within the walls of my own mind – my own mind, the only thing I have ever felt that I have to give to the world –

In the mood of Beckett

Aside from all the other bad, difficult and challenging things, and the madness and depression of my life the past several months, my computer broke down a little over a month ago. Since my situation does not afford me the possibility of even trying to see if it could be fixed, or of getting a new one, I am still without a computer, and expect to be for a little while.

---

Samuel Beckett

what would I do without this world faceless incurious
where to be lasts but an instant where every instant
spills in the void the ignorance of having been
without this wave where in the end
body and shadow together are engulfed
what would I do without this silence where the murmurs die
the pantings the frenzies towards succour towards love
without this sky that soars
above its ballast dust

what would I do what I did yesterday and the day before
peering out of my deadlight looking for another
wandering like me eddying far from all the living
in a convulsive space
among the voices voiceless
that throng my hiddenness

---

my way is in the sand flowing
between the shingle and the dune
the summer rain rains on my life
on me my life harrying fleeing
to its beginning to its end

my peace is there in the receding mist
when I may cease from treading these long shifting thresholds
and live the space of a door
that opens and shuts

This sort of thing is completely normal for me.

I'm only sharing this because, honestly, it's too good not to.

This morning while on the toilet I notice two big bruises and some light scratches just below my left hip: "Oh my god! What the f--… Oh wait. Right. I fell from a tree yesterday."