Questioning the commentator in me

[Rediscovering notes from 3-5-09]

As a commentator, it’s difficult to know where to begin some days, commenting on what’s going on around me.


I can always fall back on weird and wonderful things I see, or experiences I’m having and what they mean to me.


I really don’t want this to be a personal journal. For one thing, who cares? I mean, those who care are already in my life and know all this stuff. Besides, I don’t want to blab all over the Internet about most of what’s happening with me because it’s personal.


What the world looks like from my point of view. Totally personal and independent, never having been a card-carrying member of any movement, party, or union. Largely disdainful of all organizations (it seems like they too often become self-perpetuating monstrosities run by power-mad dictators), yet aware that we are all interdependent, I seek to find what my principles are.


I have a conversation partner and fellow intellectual, but I can see how being in a milieu of pundits and politicians would sharpen one’s wit even more. Or would it make you pull your punches, since you’d lose lunches?



Palestine, the aftermath of WWII and colonialism

Misunderstanding the Economy

Political animal behavior

I feel stuck

Am I stuck in my own mud?

Am I stuck, or do I just think I’m stuck?

Is my thinking stuck?

What am I stuck on? Stuck with?

Through the heart, stuck?

“Stuck on you” must be a country song.

Being stuck has both positive and negative meanings/connotations/implications.

You can be stuck on a good thing as well as on a bad thing.

Simple-minded crap, that’s what I’m stuck on.

Thinking stuck, stinking “thuck.”

Word play, that’s what I do all day,

making hay, or is it “hey man,” whatchoo lookin’ at, brat?

Me and the microphone, me and the words,

The Wordz man, here come The Wordz,

Got me a plan, went South for a tan,

been thinkin’ ’bout Afghanistan,

been thinkin’ ’bout this planet-stan,

how we each got our own spinning plan,

little Ralphies and Janets got their planettes,

revolving around the same sun.

Solar flare, I don’t care, sun of light and sunburn, son of God and soulburn, burn in hell, never tell, doing well, despite the hard-sell. Oh well.

Chains of love

Ever heard the golden oldie about “chains of love”? Here’s a slight variation:

“Chains! My blog has got me locked up in chains

But they ain’t the kind, that you can seeeeeee

Ooo-ooh these chains of loooove got a hold on me!”

Yes, it’s a willing bondage, but a burden nevertheless. We love to communicate — most of the time. Then comes the morning when we’re glad our cell phone “ran out of battery” as they say, and we can’t even find it. Or the internet is down, and we don’t care. Saying “Hi” to a neighbor on the other side of the street as we walk the dog is a greater high than any tweet, instant message, or blog.

But then again, there’s no discernible record of that “Hi.” We can’t go back over a string or thread of “Hi”s and see whose turn it is, or what days get the most “Hi”s. Life is random; the Net is precise. People forget, but Facebook remembers everything. The attraction to live your life on Facebook is irresistible for some. They chain themselves to their status update and report themselves in custody and under Internet arrest — just check my location on GPS, please, make sure I’m where I say I am, and see who is nearby. Tell me to turn left in a quarter of a mile, give me some “Likes.” Maybe even a comment.

Say, didn’t Karl Marx call on the workers of the world to throw off their chains? Seems like we didn’t care for all that freedom and we slipped on some virtual chains. So if you want to hear from me, just rattle my chain … it’s a chain of loooooove.

I’m starting over — again! (Smiley face)

Stand back, this could get messy … I’m going to slaughter my internet presence in plain view. [“Where do you want this killing done? Out on Highway 51!” Bob Dylan]

There’s really no other choice — I either start right now, right where I am, with what I have, or I dawdle, procrastinate, lie to myself about how I’m almost organized, almost ready to launch — launch what? How can I decide when every five minutes I think of another way to say what it is that I want to say? That’s me: Own it, I say. Do it. Simply Be!

Besides, I already started — been blogging since 2008, staking a claim in the rush for internet gold, silver, brass and aluminum. This is a restart, a do-over, a Mulligan.

So instead of presenting an idealized frosted cake with candles ablaze blog, I’ll be showing you the grinding of the flour (Hell, the growing of the grain!), the gathering and cracking of the eggs, the mess and mystery of creation as it’s happening. Welcome to my world, where words are all I have, and perhaps all I need to help make the madness calm, the killing stop, and the equal worth of every life be the rule.

146-152/365 – A week in France

The Eiffel Tower as seen from the peace memorial.

The Eiffel Tower as seen from a peace memorial.

Looks like a week has passed since my last blog entry. Oh well, France has been too much fun for blogging. We were also in a house without an Internet connection for three days down in the south near Nice and Cannes. But I don’t need to make excuses — some photos did go up on Facebook — this is my project and I can choose not to beat myself up about deadlines.  Deadlines — ffffp! (A French expression I have observed.)  In a recent conversation, my Dearest reminded me of the tyranny of deadlines that drives publishing, which we have both now drifted away from.  A blog of one’s own is an opportunity for expression, not a requirement.  And I will have plenty to say soon.