Sunday, April 30, 2006


I will have much, much more to write about the just-concluded Blown-Star Blodgers Tea Party and Ice Cream Social (tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Kelley for coming up with “Blown-Star”!), but right now I am recovering from two days of sensory overload and a three-hour drive back to Sweat City, where I will be spending the next several days on Great Corporate Salt Mine-related bidnis.

It’s difficult to describe a blogmeet to someone who has not experienced one. Suffice it to say that it is a living demonstration of the ability of Online Journaling to build communities. Not mere virtual communities either; communities that are every bit as real as those composed of neighbors, coworkers, or people who attend the same House of Worship. Technology enables and facilitates, but it is people that make it happen...and them peeps is Us.

But enough bloviation for now. There will be more. Much more.

There will be photographs. There willl be lurid tales of Memorable Moments. There will be talk of screaming hordes of chipmunks; of pancakes ’n’ bananas; of Paulie Walnuts; of the Flambémobile and the Great Salt Lick Inferno. B is for Budweiser: it’s good enough for me!

[Q: What is there to eat at the Salt Lick? A: Blog-Meat.]

All that crap is for later. Right now I need some downtime for Systems Recovery.

What I will share with you now, Esteemed Readers, is that, enroute from Austin to Houston this afternoon, I had the iPod d’Elisson plugged in to the car stereo, and a song came on that, for some strange, nebulous reason, made me think of one of my fellow Blown-Eyeds. He may never have heard it...but I am convinced that he would enjoy it.

The artist is MC 900 Foot Jesus, and it’s poetry for a Blodge-Meet Aftermath.

The City Sleeps

Stealing down an alley on a cold dark night
I see a halo in the rain around the street light
I stop and look, and listen to the sound
As the raindrops penetrate the silence all around
Alone, I gaze into the glistening street
The distant thunder echoing my heartbeat
Urging me on to a secret goal
Away from the light from this lamp on a pole
So I turn, slip away into the rain
Drifting like a spirit through the shadows in the lane
Clutching the tools of my trade in my hand
An old box of matches and a gasoline can
Darkness envelopes the scene like a shroud
A veil of emptiness hangs from the clouds
Filling up the cracks in this desolate place
Cradled by the night in an icy embrace

Moving to the town like a ghost in the rain
A dim reflection in a dark window pane
Blackness beckons from every side
Creeping all around like an incoming tide
A broken window in an empty house
I slip inside and begin to douse
The whole place with the fuel that will feed the fire
And push back the night, taking me higher
On out of the darkness in a deafening roar
The match in my hand is the key to the door
A simple turn of the wrist will suffice
To open a passage to paradise
I pause, I think about the past and the gloom
The smell of gasoline permeates the room
Everyone has a little secret he keeps
I light the fires while the city sleeps

(Like the 4th of July)

The match makes a graceful arc to the floor
And time stands still as I turn for the door
Which explodes in a fireball and throws me to the street
I hit the ground running with the flames at my feet
Reaching for the night which recoils from the fire
The raindrops hiss like a devilish choir
Dying in the flames with a terrible sound
Calling all the names of the sleepers all around
But then in the arms of the night, they lay
Their dreams sprout wings and fly away
Out of the houses in a gathering flock
Swarming overhead as I hurry down the block
I make my escape with the greatest of ease
And savor the darkness, drop to my knees
And the lightless window, my hand on the latch
I reach in my pocket, and pull out a match

(Like the 4th of July)

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