A Rain of Frogs

Some of the search strings that lead people to this site absolutely call for introspection. Last month’s top ten list:

10: lindsay lohan no underwear
9: make him wear panties to work
8: thought about human nature
7: consensual incest
6: lenore the cute little dead girl
5: worlds smallest thongs
4: 101 things in 1001 days
3: the secret railroad
2: twain loaded frogs
1: rain frogs

I went to bed at 12:20 last night, about five minutes after finishing up some extra (non-overtime) work for the evening. All times Eastern Standard, or Eastern Daylight. I can never remember which we’re in. You choose.

I’ve been sick for the last few days, since the weekend, I think. Nothing major,a mild ‘flu complicated by a seasonal allergic reaction to ragweed pollen. This contributed a tickle in the throat of the nagging, persistent variety.

So, I was still staring at the ceiling fan at 1:40. Have you ever done that? IF you try to follow the tips of the fan blades with your eyes, you can experience a really cool thing I can only call the “Spiro-graph effect.” Try it some time. I think you’ll like it.

It’s entertaining. For a couple minutes, anyway.

So, at 2:35, I started getting annoyed. The cough was now conspiring with my chronic insomnia to keep me awake. This unfortunately resulted in the most dreaded of events: I started thinking.

Do you have any idea how dangerous that is at 3:55? Or at 4:10? What about 4:30? It’s pretty dangerous, and it gets worse the longer it goes on.

It is possible I slept last night, but it’d have to have been some time between 4:54 (the last time I saw on the clock) and 6:30, when the alarm went off and I got up.

Good morning world.

I have come to the conclusion that I have a great deal of difficulty coming to a conclusion.

I have been writing a story, that some of you were reading fairly diligently, that has but two entries left to complete. I have tried to write these numerous times, but find them lacking. Especially given the power of some of the previous parts of the story.

It will come. I cannot push this. This isn’t a writers block, I just need to get back to a place where that story flows. I am working on it, but I cannot rush it. Pushing will only result in mediocrity, and this story demands more than mediocrity.

This failure to close, to pull the trigger, to finalize, whatever, is pervasive in my life, and may well have been since I was quite young (though I don’t think it goes quite so far back as that, perhaps only to the fifth grade). It’s not that I can’t close, or that I’m afraid to pull the trigger. I don’t know what it is.

But it is changing.

Thank you Roman Dirge. Thank you for this.
—
Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll! – a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?- weep now or nevermore!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read- the funeral song be sung!-
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young-
A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

“Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her- that she died!
How shall the ritual, then, be read?- the requiem how be sung
By you- by yours, the evil eye,- by yours, the slanderous tongue
That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?”

Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong.
The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride.
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes
The life still there, upon her hair- the death upon her eyes.

“Avaunt! avaunt! from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven-
From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven-
From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven!
Let no bell toll, then,- lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damned Earth!
And I!- to-night my heart is light!- no dirge will I upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days!”

Lenore, Edgar Allan Poe 1831.

I truly believe Andy Warhol has had more than his fifteen minutes of fame.

I really do.