Weeds

Spent a few minutes weeding the flower bed out front yesterday and it got my mind to thinking. A blog is like your yard; don’t pay attention to it, and after a while it dies.

Lately this site has been looking like a lawn with a bank foreclosure sign sprouting from it. All brown and weeds…

The other day, a fellow blogger knocked on my door. “Hey Cieslak, could you post something new here for chrissake! You’re driving down the values of other websites around the cyber-hood.”

That, or squatters could break in and start posting on their own…

Fine.

I’ll open up the garage, roll out my rickety old gas-powered word processor, spark up the thesaurus, and drag out the rusty editing tools. Cut back some of this undergrowth. Water the imagination. See if I can get a few metaphors to take root and bloom.

Problem is, the next day, my back will be killing me.

Face Palm

"Face Palm: Because expressing how dumb that was in words just doesn't work..."

Sort of Says it All

Dismantle the Sun

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

(“Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone”—by W. H. Auden)

Angels of St. Mary's

Watching over the funeral mass...

Appears to be a Stratocaster...