Excuse me for not blogging for so long. It's not that I've been out jogging or busy cataloguing all the things I haven't written and haven't done. I'm just right here sitting more or less adrift like a shipwrecked sailor on the wine dark sea waiting for a shark to make a meal of me while I tread water for all eternity. My keyboard clacks with noiseless sounds where all my empty thoughts abound after everything is gone that I have tracked and kept in storage in a treasure chest buried on an island under a thousand feet of shifting sand far from the madness of the world at large; my own personal madness will do quite nicely.
Today is my half-birthday. I'm sixty-seven and a half today. Who cares? Well, at 67 ½, every day you wake up breathing is a cause for celebrating. Whatever the weather, wherever you are, whoever is in power at the moment near or far, life is good, life is fair.. At least for me; in that sense I've been pretty lucky. I have hair. Lots of it. My brain is still reasonably functional. I still remember all sorts of s—tuff. My train of thought blithely sits on the track waiting to move. My bags are packed and whatever I lack for the trek I will figure out at the other end and, what the heck, I celebrate by sharing the following paragraph with all my friends, and rest assured I'll never quit.
I've been on a poetry kick of late, rhyming lines on love and fate. The Trump Show makes me hesitate, but sometimes you just have to leave politics aside and go on a more joyous ride, and sometimes you feel a lion's pride in the few things you can control and the many things that feed your soul. So rhymes have become my oars on a lifeboat that suddenly appeared, easing all my deepest fears for now as I put in for a distant rocky shore, and I can see you standing there waiting with a warm blanket6 and a steaming cup of tea.
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