I spent most of last year refusing to look at this blog, while it festered away in purgatory, punished for being a low priority. For being ugly and unwieldy and not what I wanted it to be. But now it’s back, and looking clean, and pretty close to what it should be.
Some things to note:
I changed a few things around based upon I suppose a new concept of what a website bearing my full name as the URL should be. Some posts on here will come up as “nothing” because they are in fact links in the Archive page. Many posts have photos that are either formatted poorly, or non-existent – this is a result of a redesign in progress, in which some pages, photos, and links did not make the jump to lightspeed, and instead are wandering about … wondering where everyone else took off to. The Blog and the Archive page are set up like databases, although I am really fond of that, it didn’t make for a seamless transition. Most clicks and links and navigation work real smoothly, some won’t. When in doubt, refer to the menu to the left.
“In the port of Amsterdam there’s a sailor who sings
of the dreams that he brings from the wide open sea ..
And in the port of Amsterdam there’s a sailor who sleeps
While the riverbank weeps to the old willow tree …
And in the port of Amsterdam there’s a sailor who dies
Full of beer and full of cries in a drunken down fight
And in the port of Amsterdam there’s a sailor who is born
On the hot muggy morn, by the dawn’s early light …”
So he stands up and laughs and he zips up his fly … lord I can feel the tunes I’ve forgotten and the nights I spent with my people drunk by a fire, I picture one face bearded and crimson like a smacked ass glowing with pent up this and that, belching his way into a backward collapse snoring loudly in a grubby sleeping bag.
Anyway. This site. It’s back, and it’s back and it’s back. Clean and slick. A link to show prospectives with a toothy grin, like a pirate who just shook your hand. A task on Sundays, keeping mental crises at bay with a growing list of contributions to a bat filled cave. A therapeutic accompaniment to iTunes on shuffle; a reason to believe that the universe is in sentient charge of all things I take notice of, like a flitting nymph in a forest pouting as I wander the wrong way. A source of pride, and the tool I work away at boredom and Hell with, sneering at the Devil underneath the workbench sticking his horny face up from between my legs. He’s a footrest now, and it burns my toes when I type.
Outside a breeze like a young girl, choosing windows to blow through like dolls to play with like hair to pull back like shirts that may fit like visions of self in a mirror that never speaks out loud.
