Strange

how this keeps happening.  It’s as though the blog gods don’t want me to succeed.  But I ain’t giving up.

I guess

I had better learn to live with it.  Apparently I can no longer administer to this blog.  The dashboard has changed into some elementary model that the folks over at the forum can’t explain.  What they have suggested is that I clear the cookies from my browser and see if that is what is causing the problem.  I am hesitant to do this since I may have some cookies that are too valuable to lose.  On the other hand, life is about choices right.

This should be good

The test worked.  I received an email of the post on this blog and the comment button came with it.  So tomorrow I believe I’ll be moving my blogs over here from blogspot and that will be that.  I hope.

The test

Well, here goes nothing.

Sunday . . .

I know if I’ve said it once I’ve said it a thousand whatevers.  Sunday is the day, man.  I don’t know where the rest of you are but I’m in sunny Cali and it was perfect for cruising on my bike down by the beach.  The waves had great form and this morning it was glass to the max.  My favorite coffee stop, the Pannikin, home made scones, the LA Times, talk with my partner, and then back on my bike.  Seagulls cry, the white volleyballs fly, and I lean back and cruise ‘cuz it’s Sunday, man.

A Territorial Imperative

Space . . .
Robert Ardrey posed the question for the ages
When he offered up his treatise on rats in cages.
As space recedes, said he, the pace of life leaves us no
Time to breathe, crowds in, forces us to cross against
The yellow to red light, doesn’t wait nor hesitate.
The breath of fresh air becomes the fetid exhale.
Heat, the result of speed,
Expands each encounter’s
Press
Sure as a cave in cuts off
Light
Turns day into night, begins the claustrophobic’s fright.
Crushed against each other, each instant seems longer and so the
Press
Sure grows – We move – Race against
The red light or even more (maddeningly)
Cruise through it at the end of the line obdurately refusing to look left or right.
You know this truth even as you sit in denial waiting for the last car to hurtle
Past and the cars behind you begin their honking cry
All ready to race to where the next lights lie.

And even each recognition of this act of speed compressing,
Instead of giving us peace,
Becomes another form of the press
Sure to push us even faster.
Ever closer to the edge that’s despair. Consumed, subsumed . . .
Our terror turning ist.
And meanwhile, there it is blinking, the cursor light winking,
With it’s only eye – telling us
That it’s Pentium (Trademarked) process can take us there,
Race us there out into inner space,
Our gameboys palmpiloted.
Our implanted synapses
Imploding at Warp 8.
Which seems great, until
We realize like the Star Trekkers we so wish we were,
“Beam me up Scotty”
That that is the speed at which our universe begins to disintegrate,
Begins to un relate.
And only Super (the person that is) can reverse our fate,
Can retract the boarding gate,
Can reinvent the late great time when we all had a little SPACE . . .

Previously . . .

I mentioned that I needed to reread Saul Alinsky’s Requiem but of course by the next day I realized that I was just wish-fulfilling.  The title of his book is actually Rules for Radicals, published in 1971 a year before his death.  I was just serving up a requiem of sorts when I Freudian slipped my own thoughts about what has been lost since the day when we actually used his techniques for social change.  Like I said, it was late at night.  The time where things slow down and I begin to wonder how the world g0t here from where we were?

Late at night

is a familiar time.  I’ve just finished reading another book, this one by Barry Eisler.  It’s the latest in his series about John Rain, this one called Requiem for an Assassin.  I guess I’m going to have to look up that word requiem because right now it’s resonating with Requiem for a Heavyweight which both Anthony Quinn and Jack Palance gave such meaning to.  In this one Rain is forced out of retirement and into facing himself in order to save his one and (he thinks) only friend.  But that’s enough about the plot.  What intrigues me about this book is how it fits into the whole genre of thrillers who’s story line is about the failures of governments and politicians and our current and recurrent need to wage war to reach a peace. 

As I was finishing this story, I had an epiphany.  What if the people around the world who really do want peace without war decided to protest by simply stopping all unneccessary use of oil.  I mean it.  Walk to work, car pool for real, use public transportation, bike it, and any other means of protest that would bring this system of dependence and immature need to a halt.  They could say they are doing it to fight terrorism.  Wow, I need to go reread Saul Alinsky’s Requiem for a Radical. 

So Strange . . .

I came to wordpress because it is supposed to have the ability to email my posts with comments to subscribers.  I have yet to see the feedflare results I ordered.

Sundays are fine for

getting up early while everyone is still asleep and going for a bike ride on streets that pass sibilant beneath my wheels.

Sundays are fine for taking the paper out on the porch under the shade of our elm tree and sitting and reading while the birds sing the neighbors awake.

Sundays are fine for watching basketball, for listening to blues at a beach side dance club, for whiling a way the time ’til Monday comes and its back to waiting for next Sunday.