Wond'ring Aloud

Beware the Tides of May! Errr. something like that. Anyhap ... the months roll on like the beauteous guitar chords of an acoustic Jethro Tull song over too soon. Ahh, that Ian Anderson is a pip! Pardon my use of the exclamation mark!

But what is the point?

RADIATION still dominates with grace the masthead, which is a positive result of my inability to publish anything for the present quarter. My first mate in the Terminal has departed this world for the next ... whatever that means, entails or whatever (I would like to think it is a far better place than I have ever been, a la the late great and immortal Sid Carton). And I am stuck here to wander 'pon this desolate Bardo plane wond'ring aloud and in my own skull, pond'ring, as if staring into the twin voids of Yorick's own.

Indeed, tis better sweet than bitter, but is often human nature to dwell upon the latter, and thus do I. Late of the Rump, I have narrowly avoided an ugly situation wherein my life may have been at odds with the intentions of those present. The continued incorporation of this profitless corporation may not rely upon a corporeal Rorschalk, testing the bounds of virtual and corporeal reality. Concocting a plan on the fly as it were, I've set the assassins at the others throats for the time being, and slipped away. Although I cannot really ascertain whether these assailants are anything more than cardboard cutouts that pose no real threat.

Alas! We create these passion plays to fill the vacuum that will otherwise drive us all mad and blast us off into despair. Were it not for these fictive flights of delirium, we all would be moping shrouds withering away in deceptive doldrums. And insufferable louts, too boot. So, we create them for your general consumption. And if you can relate, then you'll know you're not alone. The struggle is the thing, as is the play, as is the dumb show, and all of it is not all that stupid.

I await and crave collaboration. For without it, this one trick Shetland must retreat onto an island of mis-shat ploys, until my Mr. Spock shall ride in on his iceberg to rescue me. Now, I walk upon the trails of velvet green, desiring upon an empty canvas. Please don't be long!