Maryland sky from weekend past, most beautiful Spring since the last until the next, did not toggle from Winter to Summer with no Spring like many Mays here, gets that bleggalgaze off the top of blog, gets you these links before they're stale
This not only short changes what the team I'm on does, it trivializes what we do, deliberately reiterates and reinforces what busboys we are and the requirement we know it
I prefer (and am used to) being invisible at work, but my colleagues are completely hurt by our invisibility though we've been the only people in the fucking building since March 2020, someday I'll post what I type in notebook about the fucks who rule us and fine metaphors abounding
▲'s most posted video on this blog by a factor of X. ▲'s the BLCKDGRD Bleggalgazing Anthem, has been since Day One, people can vouch, yesterday High BLCKDGRD Bleggalgazing Day, traditionally the most annoying least read post of the year, fine metaphors abound
Chris Elliott born 61 years ago yesterday, since his last birthday I've seen him as Roland Schitt, Mutt's father
Despite the plague my year between Elliott's 60th and 61st *way* better than my year between Elliott's 59th and 60th
Last BLCKDGRD Bleggalgazing day I retired the usage of "Egoslavia" and "Egoslavian" but said I'd keep the image on the blogroll but removed it a few months back
Last BLCKDGRD Bleggalgazing Day I was painting self-portraits using only primary colors and still writing with fountain pens in tablets, now neither
I stopped painting when I stopped composing in tablets, and when I started writing poems again via typing I discovered - not discovered, finally acknowledged - nothing ruins the experience of accomplishment for me more than transcribing my handwriting into type which confirmed what I knew but thought a moral weakness: second drafts, even if superior to first, ruin the first, better to abandon than rewrite (I can also type faster than I can write so can keep up with my head better with my fingers tapping than a pen scritching paper so I lose less of the one draft)
Between Chris Elliott's 60th and 61st birthdays I quit tablets and ink to compose on a keyboard I've had two poems published and been asked to submit more by three places that turned the ones I sent them down (I also started trading poems with a poetry professor I know who enthusiastically liked mine but then I sent him some of Johannes Goransson's poems which he despised, I haven't heard from him since, FMA)
The grids started in December. I like them. I think they make the blog easier to read and better to look at, if you don't but are still here thank you, if you're indifferent but still here thank you, if you do and are still here thank you
As I type this sentence at 20:15 EDT May 31 2021 this blog (that is, this iteration of BLCKDGRD) has had 1998059 unique views, so thank you
If you are Kinding me but me not you please let me know, and please let me know if there's anyone in Blegsylvania, not just from our stringtown, you think I would like and benefit from reading, hearing, knowing, and not only digitally, please let me know
This Holy BLCKDGRD Bleggalgazing Day I'll not pretend I want to abandon my goddamn free blogging platform and admit it won't happen because I don't want or need the disappointment of rebranding necessary to move to another platform just as shitty as this one though packaged as less of an invasive surveillance tool as this one with the end result I'm just as spied on by the same motherfuckers but read less by all of you
I continue to maintain there's a reason all but two posts a year here are tagged My Complicity and assert this is and will be this shitty blog's THEME SONG ONE! now and forever, fuck me
Thus, weary of life, in view of the great consummation which awaits us —
tomorrow, we rush among our friends congratulating ourselves upon the
joy soon to be. Thoughtless of evil we crush out the marrow of those
about us with our heavy cars as we go happily from place to place. It
seems that there is not time enough in which to speak the full of our
exaltation. Only a day is left, one miserable day, before the world
comes into its own. Let us hurry ! Why bother for this man or that ? In
the offices of the great newspapers a mad joy reigns as they prepare the
final extras. Rushing about, men bump each other into the whirring
presses. How funny it seems. All thought of misery has left us. Why
should we care ? Children laughingly fling themselves under the wheels
of the street cars, airplanes crash gaily to the earth. Someone has
written a poem.
Oh life, bizarre fowl, what color are your wings ? Green, blue, red,
yellow, purple, white, brown, orange, black, grey ? In the imagination,
flying above the wreck of ten thousand million souls, I see you
departing sadly for the land of plants and insects, already far out to
sea. (Thank you, I know well what I am plagiarising) Your great wings
flap as you disappear in the distance over the pre-Columbian acres of
floating weed.
The new cathedral overlooking the park, looked down from its towers
today, with great eyes, and saw by the decorative lake a group of people
staring curiously at the corpse of a suicide : Peaceful, dead young
man, the money they have put into the stones has been spent to teach men
of life’s austerity. You died and teach us the same lesson. You seem a
cathedral, celebrant of the spring which shivers for me among the long
black trees.
