So, um, yeah. Return to maroonish. This blog's Theme Song and Theme Songs Seven (the Official Bleggalgazing Anthem), Two, and Three required to celebrate the shameless self-indulgence. The green was driving me nuts, not the color, the inability to manipulate the template. Changing BLCK2DGRD to dynamic also made the inability to manipulate the template here exponentially more maddening. I needed to stop thinking about not being able to change the template. It doesn't surprise people who know me it got to be an obsession, not being able to change the template. I needed to stop thinking about it, it had long ago creeped into other territories, was becoming a main topic, had passed from metaphor to topic. So I changed the template this morning to dynamic then changed it back to basic, the conversion freeing the Apply to Template functionality, so yay me if not you. I didn't deliberately wait for the second slowest day of the year in Blegsylvania, I woke up this morning and said, Fuck it, do it or shut up, and I'm incapable of shutting up. Fine metaphors abound. More dicking around to come! yay me if not you. If I can figure out how to add blogrolls to dynamic templates, might end up there.
- Marooned.
- The Laid-Back Guy.
- As promised, the Thirteen Precepts of Maqroll the Gaviero, one a linky post until done. Number one: Thinking about time, trying to find out if past and future are valid and, in fact, exist, leads us into a labyrinth that is no less incomprehensible for being familiar.
- Hints of others.
- A midwinter celebration.
- Bleggalgazing. I'm flattered the term stuck elsewhere.
- Bleggalgazing and remembering Jon Swift.
- Proust, for those of you who do.
- Bomb Party's Top Ten songs of year.
MYSELF I SING
George Oppen
Me! he says, hand on his chest.
Actually, his shirt.
And there, perhaps,
The question.
Pioneers! But trailer people?
Wood box full of tools—
The most
American. A sort of
Shrinking
in themselves. A
Less than adult: old.
A pocket knife,
A tool—
And I
Here talking to the man?
The sky
That dawned along the road
And all I've been
Is not myself? I think myself
Is what I've seen and not myself
A man marooned
No longer looks for ships, imagines
Anything on the horizon. On the beach
The ocean ends in water. Finds a dune
And on the beach sits near it. Two.
He finds himself by two.
Or more.
'Incapable of contact
Save in incidents'
And yet at night
Their weight is part of mine.
For we are all housed now, all in our apartments,
The world untended to, unwatched.
And there is nothing left out there
As night falls, but the rocks
