Hereunder

Quadrennial Quandary

Gentle visitors, it seems hard to imagine that it was just four years past when these pages were first vivified with the kind of lively postage that you have come to expect (though largely regret).   Nothing like the unjustified clamor and acclamation generated by that seminal post had been seen in the days BOE (Before the Obama Era).  

Now, your humble Contributor -- four years older but not any the wiser; sprouting white hairs where there once were flaxen; struggling to recall what was once close at hand, such as the Finance Minister of the Kingdom of Bhutan; feeling the burden of advancing age; and, even desperately adopting a more favorable numbering system as regard his years -- now, he questions whether, under these distressing circumstances, he should continue in this laborious and unprofitable work of blogging.

Gads, you might say, how convenient for our humble Contributor to raise such a question, suggesting, as it does, that he has been prolific, prodigious, and even religious in his work, when, in point of fact, his output has been akin to the meager Gross Domestic Product of the Kingdom of Bhutan (according to the most recent report of Finance Minister, whose name we cannot currently recall). 

Your humble Contributor, ever patient with the impertinence of certain hypothetical visitors, would respond that it has always been the policy of this publication to favor quality over quantity, even at the cost publishing nothing.   More importantly, however, the question is more philosophical in nature: namely, has the art of blogging -- once so new, so fresh, and so exhilarating, as in the days BOE --  become the alliterative kin to the bleak and bloated blight of bland and blase blabber of blinkards and blatherskites?  Or, is the very question a blatant blasphemy?

Blimey, you might answer, bleats me.   Indeed, then you would share my angst.

A Word on Words

Gentle visitors, it occurred to us recently that we had not offered one of our noted "A Word On...." commentaries in nearly two years -- a shameful omission when you consider the many patient visitors who had waited, day in and day out, full of anticipation, for the next such post -- like little children awaiting St. Nick or a Sufi awaiting Illumination, enduring the daily disappointment, which, in time, descended to disillusionment and even disconsolation, at failing to see that Word of Wisdom dripping from these pages as golden drops of honey. 

We cannot describe the guilt and shame we feel at this negligence.  And, yet, there it is:  staring at us like an enraged rooster of Italian derivation.

Then, as we hurried to correct this remissness, we noted that, in composing "A Words On Words", we could not possibly convey such a word without using words.  Oh, the horror and  conundrum of it!  Like the hand drawing the hand, we were suddenly caught in a world of topsy-turvy solipsism -- or, more precisely, in world of raging circularity.   "Words, words, words ...." like the song of Italian derivation says.

But, therein lies the trouble -- the derivation that is.  Those of our visitors who are less etymologically challenged know that the word "word" derives from the Latin (hence Italian) word "verbum".  But, imagine a world with all verbs and no nouns -- a raging torrent without ceasing -- all action without subject or object.  That is, like much of our contemporary entertainment.

Ah, those Italians are seductive -- we'll grant you that -- but what a monstrous conspiracy of words, words, words!

Parole, parole, parole....

Extremely Abbreviated Tales (XAT)

Gentle visitors, in recent years, we have entered the era of soundbites, diminished attention spans, and profoundly abbreviated textual communications.  Therefore, as a service to you, we will begin a series of extremely abbreviated tales (XAT) sized to fit comfortably in no more than two PDA screenloads.  Whereupon, our gentle mobile Visitors may comfortably read the tale while driving, drinking coffee, and checking messages -- all without the enormous investment in time that was required for FOL (Freaking Old Literature).  Our first offering anon.

Write or Wrong?

Gentle visitors, summertime is fast drawing to an end, and the slight chill now in the air beckons the delinquent inditer to return to his work. And, thus, some have asked your humble Contributor to take up, again, his digital input device; though, many others have begged him not to do so.  "Enough!" cry the latter group, affected in some measure by the vaguely antique English of these pages, "Enough, we say!  After this respite, would you once again afflict us with your meandering scribbling?"

That is the question then: whether to succumb to the overwhelming vox populi, however rancorous and wrong it may be, and set down the pen in favor of a more geometric and profitable avocation, such as origami?-- or to heed that lone voice crying out in the wilderness and do the write thing?  Gentle visitors, take heart!  We have chosen the road less traveled (there's poetry there!... even self-help), not that it will make any difference. 

We will hack through the dense undergrowth, sweating and swiping away the scratching branches and biting bugs, faithfully following the faint, overgrown foot trail, blazed so long ago by a frightful Frost, until, at length, we reach that glorious clearing, verdant and open to the vast, cerulean, early autumn sky, and where, no doubt, we will be cited by some despicable forest ranger for habitat destruction.

Still, once we have paid the fine and done the time, it will have been worth it.  For, we will have the consolation of knowing that we played our hand, however badly dealt, and that we never folded, unlike the faithless origamist. 

Monthly Financial Report

TO:  Chair, Finance Committee, Hereunder Institute for Random & Transitory Scribbling (HIRTS)

SUBJECT:  Earnings Report for the Period of February 23 - March 22, 2006

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In accord with the Committee resolution of February 23, 2006, Hereunder instituted a voluntary contribution scheme for its itinerant but loyal visitors.*   The resolution called for periodic reports on earnings, projections for future earnings, and suggestions for the best expenditure of such earnings.

During the period from February 23 to March 22, 2006, Hereunder received a total of $0 in voluntary contributions, of  which $0 were attributable to on-line credit card payments, $0 were attributable to automated PayPal payments,  and $0 were attributable to checks or cash submited via the mail. 

Given these numbers, the Earning Subcommittee feels confident in the following earnings projections:

Next Month -- $0.00

First Full Quarter -- $0.00

First Full Year -- $0.00**

The Subcommittee would recommend that none of the non-existent earnings be expended at this time.

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* The committee resolution was undertaken upon the basis of a survey of our visitors, commissioned by the Committee, the findings of which indicated that 1) 98% of the visitors to the site described themselves as willing to pay some money for good literature, 2) 95% of the visitors to the site would describe themselves as of above-average intelligence,  and 3) 95% of the visitors admitted that their literary tastes ran to the infrequent, the inconsequential, and the un-amusing (the other 5% responded that they visited the site by accident and felt injured byt it), and 4) all of those admitting to such perverse literary tastes also admitted that this would properly be described as a severe affliction that would likely require a long course electro-convulsive therapy to reverse.

** One member of the Subcommittee dissented from these projections, believing that, in fact, the earnings would actually wind up as a deficit, if and when visitors figured out how to make a negative contribution.  Our technical staff has assured us that this is not possible.

A Word on Languor

Gentle visitors, of late your humble Contributors has spent his days in a feverish fight with all manner of motions, satchels of subpoenae duces tecum,  a plethora of praecipe, and any number of nebbishes -- such that, late in the evening, he finds himself in a kind  of listless languor, a lack in search of a lurch, marked by a certain lingering, ludicrous lugubriosity.  It must be the season.

Our Muse, as it were, is on holiday.  Lounging poolside in some sunny clime.  Noting the increasingly frequent rings from her desperate Musee, but not picking up.  Finding it all mildly amusing, then sipping her umbrellaed drink and turning her olive, supple face back towards that bright orb often associated with her master, Apollo.

Yes, the Sun God does appear more chiseled and bronzed than your humble Contributor.  The set of weights -- presumptive instruments of fitness -- lay heavy and undisturbed on the floor.  Our unfortunate countenance suffers an appalling pallor that frightens domestic animals and the infirm -- a overall sense of flabbiness and albinic pigment governs and serves as a metaphor for this writing life.

And, yet, Spring is just around the corner.  Yes, Spring and its rejuvenations!  The last frozen flake will fall late tonight, and thereafter the Earth shall venture out in verdure, budding forth in a kind of daffodilic frenzy!  And, our gentle Muse shall return -- tanned, rested, and ready -- and rouse your humble Contributor from his languid slumber.

Moreover, baseball will return.

A Call To Our Contributors

Gentle visitors, we are loathe to share the internal memoranda of this publication-- consisting primarily of office policy guidelines and harangues of one sort or another -- against working conditions (marginal), pay (nominal), or benefits (fringinal).  We fear scandalizing or, worse, boring our loyal visitorship.    But, there comes a time for a full accounting and full disclosure; hence, the following urgent missive.

My fellow Contributors --

Lent has begun, and it is a time of discipline for those who keep it -- not that I am suggesting that any of you do, since you strike me as the worst kind of heathens -- friends of the Festival, foes of the Fast -- yes, charmed with the Carnival, but with no penchant for Penance.

Yet, there is always hope, even for the worst of sinners (such as yourselves). And, this is an excellent time to put aside the futile comforts and frivolous distractions of life -- whether it be child-rearing or wage-earning -- to take up the reluctant pen.

Why, even your fellow and humble Contributor (moi) has giving up dish washing for Lent -- not only for the vain inspiration it presents, but also for the intemperate sensuality of the aroma-therapeutic dish-washing liquid we now employ. It might have been different if we still had recourse to a bar of hard lye -- but, no more.

Mind you, I am aware of the audacity of this remonstrance and request. For, who would demand that Rembrandt produce more paintings? Or that Einstein fashion more theorems? Or, that Jackie Mason invent more shtick? Rather, the Muses of the great ones follow no schedule or routine.  Instead, we, here on earth, watch the dark sky for nights upon end for that unpredictable shooting star -- ah! how brilliant it appears against the bleakness!

Nonetheless, we call as one crying out in the suburbs. This is a true vocation (small 'v') -- will you answer it? Or, will you eschew it, as John the Baptist did in the desert, for something far more worthwhile? The choice is yours.

I remain,

Your humble Contributor,

Remainderman

The Collection Plate

Gentle visitors, many of you who have happened upon these hollowed pages -- as one might stray into a darkened alley on the wrong side of town in the dead of night and, thereupon, begin a desparate search for a quick and safe exit -- many of you have inquired whether we have some means of accepting donations.  One characteristic request follows: 

"Dear Sirs, 

If I paid you, would you stop?

[name withheld]"

Evident here is a desire to contribute to your humble Contributors' cause, but coupled with a concern  -- nay, almost a childlike feear -- that we would take such offense at pay as to set down our digital quills forever.

It is true that our policy has been to turn down, graciously, all gratuities -- thankfully a policy that has not been put to any trial, thus far.  If we had a motto, it should have been "ars gratia ars", had it not already been copyrighted by an outfit who has made a great deal of money from it;  it being apparent that the writings Hereunder have little value as education, edification, or entertainment; and, us being gentlemen artists, we hold, with Shelley, that these pages are the record of the "best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds."  In short, for the happiest and best, scribbling is its own reward.

Yet, we have ever been solicitous of our visitors, and, therefore, we have extended a virtual collection plate on the side bar.  If our guest are so moved to leave a shilling or two, or even a haypenny -- why, then, we have set out a computative cup to catch these figurative coins.  The season of Lent is  almost upon us, with it's tradition of penance and almsgiving -- your visitation hereunder is, in itself, a penance, and the alms would simply add to the awful mortification of it all.  You will note that our theme for this initiative is  "Give... Until It Hurts" -- anticipating, as we always do, a rather high pain threshold among our guests.

Thus, gentle visitors, we find ourselves in a veritable win-win posture:  on the one hand, if you give us nothing, then we will be gratified to know that you regard these jottings as invaluable, incalculable, priceless; on the other hand -- and, again, our hand is out -- if you shower us with numismatic bliss, you will be gratified to know that you are supporting us in our various vices and unhealthful habits, which, through a marvelous  and as yet unexplained alchemy, yield the thoughtful thoughts here inscribed from time to time.   

In either case, we will accept your appraisal as the happiest and best accept feast or famine: with equanimity or with mirth, with a relatively broadening or narrowing girth, and with the continuing commitment to post.

Ten Thousand & Counting

Gentle visitors, we are positively giddy with the news....  Today, our humble journal entertained its 10,000th  visitor.   

True, a yawner, a non-event to our behemothic blog brethren.  And, yet, who would not settle for a day's worth of Bill Gates annual earnings.  (For that matter, even an hour's worth.   Dare we say, even a nanosecond's worth -- but, there you are, the nanosecond has long since passed, and we're nary a dollar richer.)  Yea, even the scraps that fall off the master's table we are glad for. 

But, you protest, what if we deducted from the alleged 10,000 the many visits of 1) those humble Contributors themselves (for who can be a guest in his own home?), 2) those who are simply lost, such as those travelers who "visit" a burg solely by virtue of a wrong turn, 3) family, who begrudgingly come as a matter of duty, as one once consumed castor oil, 4) those non compos mentis, 5) those who suffer from a kind of obsessive/compulsive self-destruction,  and 6) those whom we have paid to visit and, having done so, demanded far more money to return. 

Well, that would reduce our true numbers by 93%... conservatively estimating.  But, what of it?  These folks are all welcome hereunder.  In fact, they must come.  Where else in the world (excepting China) would these lost, confused, and unfortunately-related seekers turn in their search for ultimate meaning and a brief history of tether-ball?  Only in these pages. 

Ten years hence, when most of you have found your way, gotten gainful employment, received treatment, or disowned/divorced us, we expect to be on the edge of our seats before the very same cathode ray tube -- by then, cloudy, flickering, and long since antiquated -- waiting for the counter to flip to 11,o00 -- yes! 11,000 visitors.   

What renewed joy there will be.

Toast Post

Gentle visitors, stayed posted this evening for what promises to be a dramatic event:  a live, interactive composition of verse that aims to be the greatest poem ever conceived or written (or, at least, among the top 100) concerning toast.  Your humble Contributor will be assisted by his fellow Contributor Palinurus and lovely Other Householders, including our diminutive friends X and GP.