Here I am, and There You Are
Sorry I Blogged All Over Your Medium Feed

I responded to this Clay Rivers post:
And he said he thought I was gone. Gone? Me? Leave…. to where? Is there a better place to write on the tubes? If so, let me know, because I would love something new, but until then, here I am, and there you are.
I won’t lecture you about the need to blog. OK, maybe I will. Whether you need to hear this or not, I need to say it. There is entirely too much writing going on around here. That’s fine. I like to read writing, but… I ask you… where has all the blogging gone???? It’s been months since I’ve seen any mention of elves, paraphilias, or mac & cheese recipes. Nobody has told me about emptying the dishwasher. That’s what I’m in need of. Can’t someone proffer some bad poetry, slash fiction of Daenerys Targaren unleashing dragon fire on Prince Andrew, or a description of your frustration with the New York Times crossword.
On the subject of bad poetry, let me say this. I have books and books full of good poetry. I seldom read them. Read good poetry? That’s what you do in school, man. That said, all poets write bad poems. You wouldn’t set out to read bad poems, but if you read blogger’s poems, most of them are bad (sorry you had to find out that way), which makes it a JOY to find a good poem on a blogging platform. Serendipity, you see. It’s like winning on a scratch ticket. Even if you just get your dollar back you feel like you have “won”.
Clay is right in wondering where I was. The season should have started! Here’s the problem: “remote learning” meant that I had to spend my days strapped to the iron pig. When quitting time rolled around I could not stay in my cheap Staples office chair for a minute longer. Covid-19 has done serious damage to my back and neck.
Freedom looms. I intend to spend the summer here. There are the usual problems and complaints (I don’t see the people I follow and comments SUCK, SUCK, SUCK), but as I have said, here I am and there you are.
So we beat on, like boats against the current…. strike that. We abide, like balls of coagulated fat caught in the stream of effluent at the local water treatment plant, ceaselessly striving to be heard, or make art, or howl against the screaming nothingness of our un-re-con-structed America.
It could be worse.
I’ll leave you with this. I’m a Dylan obsessive, but there are lots of versions of Dylan songs that are better than Dylan’s version.

