My favorite model of the brain is one that posits that each wrinkle and crevasse is a place for information to live. You could, if you were so inclined, pour an information-rich stew over a brain, and some of it would work its way into the nooks and crannies and just stay there to form deep pools or gather or grow and collect. Or. There's me coming after your brain one thousand and one times with a rusty knife dipped in Scotch bonnet pepper sauce and suffused with depleted uranium and carving shit in there you can't get rid of when I'm done because it burns like fire and glows like cheap neon. I'm fond of that image, too.
This is posted entry 1001 for The Squidbag. Thank you. Since 2004, this blog has witnessed the birth of my daughter, the deaths of two of my friends & two grandfathers, two major hurricanes, our terrible times in Pensacola and our release from there, multiple birthdays & many of Max's milestones, such as his stage debut, or the creation of the ever-popular (but also vilified) Bacon Man. I have typed the word "fuck" about a skillion and four times, and taken to task our current President almost as often. Organized religion often tastes the blunt end of my rhetoric, and occasionally, has responded. There has been poetry and joking and history and reviews and analysis. This blog got me fired once. I have thoroughly enjoyed myself.
I have stepped on people's toes. Though not nearly often enough. We need more commenting around here, dammit!
I realize, sitting here, that I could easily have written the Great American Novel given four years, one thousand and one pages, and the time it took to do this, but such is life. I'm looking forward to blogging for four more years, until no one but me and ten select others is doing it anymore, because it is so passe. Hopefully, the world will take a more pleasant turn soon, but if it doesn't, I'll still be here to spit back into its ugly face. And write poetry. Heh.