Tuesday, May 10, 2005
When I started this monstrosity 10 months ago, there were several unspoken ground-rules I set out for myself. Sure most of them have been broken one by one, but the general overall spirit still remains: my goal was to avoid writing and maintaining a blog that was so intensely personal that it would be impossible for anyone to be interested in it but me. And possibly my mom. Like I said, they were unspoken. Let me spoke them now.

1) No posts about how wonderful and precious my kids are. Everyone can just assume that's kind of a given so I commence with the public mockery.

2) No pictures of my kids/dog/etc. It's a short leap from active, vital written blog to lazy photoblog. Besides, it isn't wise to feed the army of silent stalkers out there. I give them enough to adore with the magic of my words.

3) No song-lyrics-as-blogpost. I figure if I'm going to take all the time typing a couple dozen words out, they might as well by my self-important bullshit and not somebody else's self-important bullshit for which they've already been paid and don't need my help selling.

4) No memes. They allegedly say something about you, but frankly the fact that they come as quizzes or questionnaires make them as much about the form as the person. Anything that distracts from me as the subject is suspect. Besides, what does it really tell you about me to know that a 5-question internet quiz says that If I Were A Condiment, I Would Be: Sweet Pickle Relish? Would you say "Hm, that's strange, I always thought of Pops as more of a Spicy Deli Mustard..."? No, I thought not.

5) No poetry. This one I've covered before in this ancient post. Plus I know it makes some Bucketeers sad.

Now just because I choose to follow these self-imposed guidelines does not mean that I am allowed to walk around the blogosphere casting aspersions on those who operate under their own guidelines (it's silly I know, but some people operate blogs with no reference to my preferences whatsoever, if you can believe it), leaving emotional destruction in my wake.

My curse is that I sometimes I don't understand the ruinous power of my forceful personality. I forget that the sun-like gravitational pull of my mind and body, while keeping the planets in orbit and aligned in perfect order, can also be overwhelming--if not catastrophically destructive--if randomly or thoughtlessly misapplied. That which gives heat and light, that structures the seasons and fosters growth, warmth in the cold, respite from the encroaching darkness, can also scorch and wither. Such is my burden.

When I forget myself, the consequences can be devastating. Such was the case a few days ago when, despite my lengthy assurances of good-humored ribbing, my comments in re a young lady's poetry blogpost seems to have utterly destroyed her will to live. This delicate soul, this fragile shrinking-flower of a woman, I left crippled and sobbing in the corner of a dark room somewhere because I was careless with my words. OK, it probably was more like the cabin of an airplane than a dark room as she jetted between assignments in her job as what I can only assume is International Assassin For Hire, but the point is still valid.

Let it never be said that Pops does not recognize when he is in the wrong. Let it also never be said that Pops has gonorrhea because penicillin totally cures that right up. But mostly let it never be said about the first thing.

As an act of public penance, in an effort to clear the boards, I will offer myself as a public sacrifice. Here now I will post an example of my own poetry, composed on the fly as I sit here and type, to the horror and consternation of my readers, knowing full well the mockery and disdain I will endure and deserve because of it. I do this not for myself except to say I wish to God I could think of something else to post about today.

Here goes. May Jesus forgive me for what I am about to do.


An Poem
by Pops

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

Yeah, OK, I was cheating. Caught me. Start over.

An Poem
by Pops

O camembert, horseradish, mint-mushy peas
Kidneys and sausage of black-pudding blood
I sit and I wonder, lost in desperate tortured thought
at how English people can eat that shit
I find it
to be
revolting mostly.

On Dasher! On Dancer! On Donna Brazile!
Hairspray and hooves in mortality's race
Politics is dirtier than white foster kids
what sort
of a bastard
would say
such a thing?

I sit in a booth made of self-destroyed glass
Leaking from a thousand soft razor-cuts
I'd rather then bathe in grain alcohol
Than write
more poems
for whatever reason

Thinking compassion, that's always the trick
But penance or no, I'll prob'ly still be a dick

I hope that suffices. Poetry-hating Bucketeer SJ might complain, but I would simply offer that this is in pre-emptive retaliation for her (and everyone else's) Amazing Race post tomorrow, which I am certain not to be interested in.

There, now I've offended someone else, I'm sure. It's important to keep the apology-need current. It helps if you run out of things to blog about.

This post on the Narcissus Scale: 8.5



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