Saturday, January 15, 2005

Livejournal is down, so there goes my anonymous blogging. I think the idea of a publicly read anonymous journal is somewhat reprehensible, anyway. My god, if there were ever fodder for validation of some passing fancy or even obsession, there it would be, all the more if such a blog were to gather some type of following.

I spoke with my father tonight about Patrick O'Brian, and he agreed that in all of English lterature there is no single author who has spanned the range of his series. Nor in Russian, nor in Greek, we agreed. When a man of my dad's stature and opinion says that so-and-so's comaprison to Tolstoy is a shameful lack, take heed. Mt dad may be full of shit at times, but he does know his books. And I agree with him. Turgenev is more the mark, anyway. O'Brian writes more like Turgenev than even Jane Austen, and in that feat outdoes Hemingway. I am an enthusiast, sure, but there is something to it. A character in Collins' Moonstone talks of Robinson Crusoe holding all he needs top know of the world, all comfort and wisdom, all solace and repudiation. I know the feeling. I have always been a man to read books many times over, although I know that by so doing I cut myself off from many brilliant minds. But once admitted to my sanctum, these stories... and their authors... invariably form a chunk of my psyche. Whether this is to their credit or not remains to be seen...

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

I told my friend Astro about my mom reading my weblog, and apparently this is something that almost everyone dreads. Livejournal is full of such stories. He has a few himself. At least it plays into my policy of open-heartedness. I was wrong in putting the letter I sent her on it, I have realized. But I am tired of concealing, of evasion.
My wife wrote my mother and really stood up for me and for our daughter. Brave Potatoes for sure.
The call from my sister was cool, in retrospective. She, at one time in her life, was dealing coke wholesale for the cartels in Texas and was amazingly able to escape with her life (and owing them money). She's a cool number, really. Her daughter plays the sax, too. I hope they will come and visit us at the farm.
I may keep this blog up indefinitely. I blocked it the past few days, but that's not really what I'm about. Defeats the purpose.
And the purpose is... what?

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

Got this call from my sister asking me if I was doing lots of coke and suing for custody so I could move out of state. I gathered from her that this information was culled, more or less, from various blog entries over the past few weeks (y'all can leave a comment, really!). I mentioned chewing coca as well as the recent discoveries by my daughter's therapist, so it stands to reason that with such sketchy facts one might surmise any conclusion. She did have a point that my posting a private letter on my blog was inappropriate, so I removed it. I had no idea that anyone read this blog, so I will confide my more intimate thoughts and feelings to other venues. It was nice to hear from her, though. She is the only one in my family with any balls.
Bestride grief
my horse, perhaps carrying
dark to light, or neither, or both
as I nod and shake my head.

Graves have never troubled me
unreal, encased by dates fore and aft
often unvisited, especially later.

Now I ride over them
unpausing, any still-loose soil
hacked up by diggers
so much dust to be shaken
from my cloak at the last minute.
Odd that this is the oldest Website I maintain. The address of anything at uberhaus is now a giant spam magnet more than anything. Still get a ton of hits on this site too, though it hasn't really been changed in three years. The design is pretty horrid, but I think it still looks unusual. And Blogger is STILL free, to boot!
I have learned some pretty awful things in my life, most of them over time. The sudden ones are the hardest, those moments when you are innocent of a thing and then suddenly not. It shakes you, especially because you can easily look at your innocence as false. The patterns all mesh and the only thing that is not so obvious is how you did not see it all along (such is why potboilers are read only once). When it it one you love who shows you, shows you their wounds from your "innocence," it is bitter to swallow. What holds us up at such times? What cane will bear your entire weight, even for a moment?