One Misty Morning 1907 (Anarchy in the UK)

Well, I’m in a quandary. And I hope I can get out before nightfall. Kind of spooky around here with all these bodies floating in the marshes. And I hate the way they turn into demons if you accidentally fall in. Then there’s a big fight and you’re lucky to escape with your teeth intact.

Actually, I can go on for hours like this and not make a bit of sense and nobody notices because nobody’s reading the blog. Why? Because I’m not writing the blog, of course.

Day after day it just sits in cyberspace while I go prune the pear tree or loll about on some hillside with a loaf of bread, a bottle of red and a beautiful babe beside me in the wilderness (that would be my Patrushka).

I just sat down to blog about the necessity of anarchism. Anarchy in the UK I called it, even though it had nothing to do with England. Just an old Sex Pistols song and I like to make those little connections. It had something to do with the horrible uselessness of all governments for anything people truly want, and how we should just ignore them and do it ourselves. Something like that. But you know what? It was turning into a rant. I could just feel it.

Who wants to read a rant by a pig? Not me. I’m supposed to write about seeking God. And the sorrow of life. And misty mornings on the coast of California a hundred years ago. And Linda Lovely and Bess Faraway and Carmen O’Shaughnessy and Lamie da Kink and all the girls I loved and still love somewhere in time. And Way Out Willy and Bear Mattson and Chet Helms and Alan Cohen and Rockin’ Rodney and all my friends and pals and brothers of longtime passing youth.

I think I’m supposed to tell what happened so you can feel it too.

I might be back tomorrow. Or maybe never. I just got to get back to what counts. Maybe I’ll go up to the lake and do a little fishing. Or go for a real long walk. Try to stop blabbing for a while and start listening again.

Photo by Patrushka

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