2020

I have feasted on ambrosia and nectar. I know pain.

I know what it's like to dance in the rain.

I have seen into the blackest pit which receives all light and gives back none.

I know the scent of coffee and cinnamon.

I know what it's like to be loved by a schnauzer.

I know what it's like to witness the brain death of the universe as it unfolds.

Eucalyptus trees burn. Koalas thirst. Glaciers melt.

A wannabe king assassinates a foreign leader, then brags about the hit on Twitter with an American flag, gangster style.

That's not America. I know.

I've marinaded in Kurzweil’s Age of the Spiritual Machines.

I know A Midsummer's Night Dream and all about Caliban.

I know The Consolation of Philosophy and all it implies about the nature of immortality.

I am able to connect The Iliad and The Odyssey to The Aneid and Dante.

I know why T. S Eliot entitled his poem The Waste Land, because I know what it's like to be part of the conversation.

FOX and the Kremlin and Putin's American stooges weaponize religion, light the Tiki torches of militant ignorance, trample upon the US Constitution at the singularity. Meanwhile, our machines are coming to consciousness.

I know Plato and Aristotle and Leonardo Da'Vinci, Louis Kelso, Buckminster Fuller, and William Ferree.

I know Malthus, and Herbert Spencer, and Orwell.

I've read Mein Kamph.

I've read Washington's Farwell Address

I've read Abraham Lincoln's 2nd Inaugural Address.

General Michael Hayden recommended on Twitter that I read Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant so I did. I have a better understanding now about why General Grant continued to order his men to attack at Cold Harbor.

I witnessed the American flag fixed in the sand, miles and miles across and untamed sea. I know a rising tide lifts all ships. I was there. 6 years old, a child of the 60's and 70's.

Les Brown reminds, “Nobody's going to write your book!“

I have stories to tell, but life is a Heraclitian fire, and I have urgent work to do, even on a snow day.