The fog this morning was insane. View from my office looked like the windows were frosted.

BHK’s falafel tonight hit just the right spot!

Test of blog2blog worked well… I copied all of the public entries over to my alternate wordpress site, in case of lj collapse. (Not like that’s going to happen, but it’s nice to have an archive.) I’ll still continue to post here, but I think I’ll do periodic slides over to the other location, to keep the backups fresh.

It took a long time to move 9000+ articles over, but not as long as I’d thought. Downside is that it doesn’t take comments or tags with it, but the internal search engine at WP is pretty darn solid. Added bonus, the comment and page tracking is a lot more up to snuff. Note – Save your entries on a file locally… makes it a lot easier to catch up if something happens mid-process. Voice posts, lj-embeds and lj-polls also don’t travel well, for obvious reasons.

The Ghost of Foghorn Leghorn Speaks of Unrequited Love

I said, listen to me, boy. Only the stars know.
And now you, fidgeting in all the air
like you fear for your neck. Still,
you’re young and youth explains away all,
except love. My love. I’ve a gift
but not for this. It speaks like a house fire.

Or a bullet into a bowl of oatmeal. If fired,
you’ve got a mess. And I do, I know,
and not one I thought I wanted, like a gift.
Stay with me, son. I’m not wasting air
for your benefit alone. I said, that’s all,
and walked off, shaking. It’s hard to be still.

It’s hard to know how to be still.
When I was little I felt I’d catch fire
if I was too quiet. Nothing’s changed at all.
There’s nothing worse than to know
my smoke signals go unheeded in the air—
she won’t look, speak, accept the gift

I made for her. Her going is my gift.
All that I’ll keep. Out to an old still
I’d go and drink until I forget it’s air
I need to live, air that fills me now like fire
nothing can douse. For all I know,
the ground beneath me is burned beyond all

knowing. Any of this getting through all
that thick head, boy? Love isn’t a gift.
Way off, you’re way off. I know
you hope it’s feathers flying and time stood still,
crowing from the roof, and gun-fire
meant to silence your song on the night air.

You’re not listening. That’s just hot air.
It’s torture. You’re finished, once and for all.
You might as well be old rags in a fire.
I’ll say it again: love wasn’t a gift
when I fell flat and hard upon it, and still,
I won’t dare let it go. It’s all I know—

like the air or the sound of my voice, my gift,
all bluster and not a bit of it still.
This fire could burn me alive. Who’d know?

2 years ago – moon cake, doom patrol, politics, Life Pref, butt jokes and political statements preferred

pictures – recent visits over 24 hours

3 years ago – monet’s b’day, comment/entry stats, america’s age, torrenting shows via rss, vouchers unconstitutional, prednisone, taking falluja, work vacation, newt pics

4 years ago – bollywood, pt, hooray for adhesives!

5 years ago – Male contraceptive, Dan met OJ Simpson, Newt-spoon Wrestling, peephenge, eating on the cheap.

6 years ago – evil news, gallimaufry , happiness machine recycled, writing apache modules

7 years ago – Bee-man lives, lucha, schizo-masons, Brian comment