a man is ruined when the times change but he does not.

father, i feel i can’t go on. can’t muster, nor marshal. can’t raise the troops and the standard was stole in the very early morning. without it morale sags on all fronts and i am without a single sound idea for how stem the tide.

father. i’m clear as glass and at least as fragile. it isn’t till you come so close that your own lies are told you. we start off dark and rich, like deep green wine glass & we rub against it till we’re fine and clear and just, just as break-able.

father,  i’m hope & fear. weak knee’d & crook backed. i’m bluster & sere. expectation and need. stone-sand and everything forgotten.

father, i feel i can’t go on.

fuck the pomp and circumstance. fuck the pretense.

I was going to write some long blowhard post about all the deep meaningful shit i learnt when i nearly died but because I nearly died my whole life got fucked up–they don’t show that part in the tv-movie-of-the-week where breastless annie overcomes (sista!)–and well I couldn’t bring myself to pour little blog sized shot glasses of drivel, ahem, deep meaningful insights.

so like i say fuck the pretense. this is notice, i’m blogging again.