Hereunder

Traffic Report, Sunday, January 27, 2008

Gentle visitors, the virtual foot traffic across this site still most closely resembles the growth in GDP in Zimbabwe.  Therefore, it would be fair to compare each new post to a fresh attempt at resuscitating a hopelessly terminal patient, whose only consolation would be a quick death.  Still, we charge the paddles and apply them to our blue-lipped, pulse-less project.

In view of this apparent futility, one might reasonably ask, "Why not let the poor thing die?  I mean, give a decent burial and all, but... for goodness sake, man, why?"

We might answer, "Well, friend, who asked you?"  But, apart from the rudeness of such a retort, it is entangled in circularity -- for no-one asked the asker of such question; rather, it was the asker who did the asking -- and sophistry -- for, by such a response, the true askee paints the true asker as askee, doubts that the asker is, in truth, an askee, and masks, by asking, his status as askee, in one pass.  No small task.  But, it will not do.

We might also answer as Mallory did when asked "Why climb Everest?"  His answer:  "Because it's there."  But, apart from the flippancy of such a response, there is the issue of the "thereness" of such a thing as this site.  Certainly, it is not "there" as Everest is there, strongly surmounting the Himalaya, or Kilimanjaro is, majestically rising from the vast African savanna, or Poughkeepsie is, still drawing inspiration from its founder, Baltus Barent van Kleeck.  Perhaps, our little site, Hereunder, is only there metaphorically.  Philosophers dispute such matters, and who are we to take issue with their dispute. 

No, we must address the question fairly and squarely.  We must not prevaricate or evade or deflect the query by mounting up words and phrases sufficient to leave the curious visitor nearly out of breath and disappointed to find that, while he climbed the first mound of diversionary text in the hopes of receiving the answer when he had finally reached the summit, we had been busy building several other and larger mounds of dense and tangled verbosity directly in the poor visitors path.  Such a quest may have proven too daunting even for Mallory himself.

May he rest in peace.

Traffic Report, Sunday, July 1, 2007

Gentle visitors, traffic on this site has long since slowed to a trickle and would therefore seem unworthy of comment, especially in a world of some 20 million blogs.  (Notice how quickly and thoroughly the masses removed the "we" from "weblog" -- something we would never do as a matter of principle.)  No, it would read like a daily report of rainfall in the Atacama desert. 

Or, so it would seem, that is, until we realize that we, ourselves, are the rainmakers.   (Notice how often we use "we" -- there, we have done it again thrice more.) Yes, if your humble Contributors would only don the required plumage and talismans, and do the prescribed autographical dance about these drought-ridden pages, and make the necessary groaning and feverish display, they might call forth a drizzle from the virtual heavens -- yea, even a downpour should the hypertextual gods so deign.

Then would our fortunes be restored.  Then would our address be filled with every kind of floral bush and fruitful tree.  Then would our faithful Visitors, who had long ago mournfully committed Hereunder to the hereafter, return to us, rejoicing:  spreading out a wide blanket on our verdant meadows and taking in the many delights: the fine literary wine, the ripe poetical melon, and the bright verbal fireworks. 

We (notice again the use of "we") assure you, gentle Visitors, that it could happen.

Traffic Report, Sunday, October 15, 2006

Gentle visitors, we received the recent report that our page views had topped 20,000 with great enthusiasm. 

Consider that on 20,000 separate occasions, our gentle visitors, through the marvelous medium of their various browsers, faced a choice:  do we follow the suggestion of the little hand icon -- unremarkable, by the way, as a virtual digital representation of a natural digital appendage goes, particularly in the lack of fingernails  -- and take the course it points to, or no.  And, on each of these occasions, our gentle visitors made the choice to boldly go -- to boldly split the infinitive -- and click the left button on the input device commonly known as a "mouse" (or the right button, depending on his or her digital and hemispheric orientation).  Whence, another page view.

Astounding when one considers that the our humble web log has been as fruitful in recent months as a brown-field sown in spent seeds and fresh dioxin. 

And, yet, such is the utter courage of our visitor-ship, that they will gladly seek out that which is not:  choosing and embracing nothingness with the same complexly uncertain but vital certainty of a student of philosophy or a disciple of zen... or not.   Isn't that the point?

But, you say -- you, the supposed objector, vile and insensitive as you are, if you did exist, which we by no means grant -- you say, what about the 200,000 other separate occasions when a potential visitor sensibly chose not to enter the page?  Well, you had to point that out didn't you?  As if you, the Supposed One, even had the faculty to point, unlike our cute, little, cuticle-free hand icon, who never leads us astray. 

Facts... ever the haven for scoundrels.  We boldly chose not to face them.

Traffic Report, Monday, April 3, 2006

Gentle visitors, your humble Contributor is just back from the Burg of Bill.   Yes, it is a colonial spot, but we were there to consider various practical issues of the demented, and made a quick stop at the state hospital, founded in colonial times, and found that our name was no further up the waiting list.   Time was that the men in the white coats would have accommodated us promptly, even without a reservation.  But... now we must wait.

Driving by Bill & Mary's university, we are reminded that Scots of a certain sort are still ticked with that regal pair's so-called "Glorious Revolution".  Ah, well, how do you choose:  religious liberty coupled with "divine right", or religious persecution coupled with representative government.  Hard to say, except that the losers in that struggle still have the consolation of the Town of Jim.

As it happened, your humble Contributor had just spent the better part of a day on the road -- westerly to the Burg of Lee -- probably not named for the Old Man (Bobby Lee), but for an ancestor -- possibly Harry of the Light Horse.  In any case, the old burg is now largely surrounded by development of the most vigorous kind. 

Standing before the old courthouse, inside the wrought iron fence, we recall those days, in the last century, passing through on the way the Town of Charles (for Jim II's elder brother, another of the losing English side) and the poor relations' mountain cabin:  driving past miles of farms and, then, the tiny, delightful Burg with an outlying frozen custard stand that offered a convenient, curd-ish rest-stop.

Thence southerly on Madison's highway to the Market of Hay.  Not long ago, that would have been an apt and complete description of the place; but, again, the subdivisions now press upon it, springing up suddenly from fields, with names that conjure verdant pastures, restful repose, leaping steeds, lusty barmaids (actually, not the last). 

Thence northwesterly to and beyond the Burg of Middle,  whose qualities have been previously addressed, before the aging chassis comes to a rest.  Difficult to imagine that not two miles from this windy knoll is Village of Willis, where some folk are still waiting on running water.   Perhaps, if Jimmy had clobbered Bill & Mary long ago, things would have been different here. 

Hard to say.

Traffic Report, Sunday, January 29, 2006

Gentle visitors, this weekend, traffic was dramatically up!... at least, in Cathay, where the citizenry traveled home for the New Year of the Dog.

But, otherwise, traffic was light as your humble Contributor and his Other Householder traveled, at the behest of co-Contributor Blue Clinkers to a ... polka party.  Yes, it is sad how your humble Contributor has been humbled.  Had things gone differently, he might have been seated among the Illuminati watching others dance -- such as Nureyev just after his defection.

This misfortune might also explain how he has been so wrong about polka.  We still recall that night, some twenty or so years ago, seated on the edge of metal folding chair at Blob's Park, a bit breathless from a Pennsylvania Polka, grooving to the The Rheinlanders, marveling at the juxtaposition of a tapestry of the Blessed Virgin Mary with a stuffed, mounted shark alongside, pouring another stein of Blatz, and predicting that polka would be "the next, big thing". 

All the signs pointed to it:  the dance appeared to have reached its absolute nadir in those days and could only go up.  After all, we reasoned, it represented a fun, wholesome, healthful, cardio-vascular exercise  (albeit, largely offset by the quantities of kielbasa and cheap beer attendant to its employment).   Moreover, it was defined and driven by the accordion -- surely, a maligned and misunderstood instrument if ever there was one -- and one destined to come back.  And, furthermore, those inclined toward polka and accordions would also likely have an affinity for tetherball -- the sport of decency and freedom,  sure to catch on once again.   In Cleveland, they were talking about opening a musical Hall of Fame.

Well, who knew.   A case of the heart way ahead of the head.  Therefore, on Saturday Eve, we found ourselves on the floor turning to a bright tune -- less leapy and snappy than we were in years past -- and wondering, with the band, "Who Stole The Keeshka?" 

Like all eternal questions, the answer was not readily apparent.

Traffic Report, Monday, October 17, 2005

The graphical representation of traffic through this remote and wretched site in the virtual world during the last ten months appears as a mixed blessing:  at first, we note a rather steep incline from sea level, leaping, as it were, upwards... higher... higher... reaching a pointed pinnacle -- from which vantage one might look out upon the wide world -- calling out in a joyous, booming voice, awaiting an echoed response -- even yodeling in some sort of alp-induced fervor;  then, in a sudden slip of the booted foot, a tragic drop from the precipice... falling... falling... until those still standing on the peak peer down to see the tiny, puff of dust and, in a few moments, the dull thud.

From this point in the lowlands, we, the fallen, thereafter trudged along like common tourists over slight rises and dips;  occasionally looking back at the soaring, regal summit,  snapping a photo for the scrapbook, and turning away.   Then, within a few steps, hearing the faint sound of the fabled alp horn, blowing a mournful tribute to the lapsed, bog-dwelling bloggers.   

Ah, yes..., we remember, we were there once -- for one brief shining moment, on top of the world.

Traffic Report, Monday, May 16, 2005

Made it to Halfway today.  A road sign announces the hamlet, which consists of a few old buildings that, at one time, served some function.  Half-thought to stay for while; but, quickly abandoned the whole idea.  So, instead, your humble Contributor pushed along the designated byway to the Burg of Middle.  Halfway t0 Middle -- an poetic expression of a quarter or a verbal refinement of an equal division?  Hard to tell.

In any case, Middle is a tiny, tony town with a decidedly equine and vulpine theme.  Expensive little shops and inns with such names as the Coach Stop, the Tack and Saddle, the Thrill of the Hunt, and the Red Fox, among others.  Settle for a Cuppa Giddy-up.*  From here, a wrong turn might lead one to the Village of Snickers -- perhaps just desserts for one so disoriented. 

Instead, this one mounts his 150-horse buggy and makes for the Village of Upper.   The route is of an Upper-Middle class, and it's hard not to notice that, in these  parts, ones home counts for nothing unless it bears a name.  Any name, apparently, will do:  Salmagundi, Pheasant's Eye, Exning, Scuffle Hill, Four Chimneys, Pebbledash, Scratch Ankle, and Home At Last.  We turn off the main route, just before Por Fin, on the road named for a saint of Montfort. 

From where your humble Contributor now sits, he can see, to the east, the Run of Bulls -- the first hint of the changing terrain -- and, to the west, the Ridge of Blue -- the other side of which lies the Land of People On The Other Side.   The bright sun shines and a gentle breeze blows; the pollen coats whatever sits still for a time in a fine gold-dust.  And, thus, he is coated and golden, waiting on a few little brethren of war.

Would that your humble Contributor and his household had a place out here -- nothing extravagant, mind you -- a simple cottage with some attendant acreage.  He would give such a house such a fine name.  If only one our gentle visitors would remember him in a Last Will -- he would even draft such a testament gratis. 

House name suggestions would do for starters.

* Note  as always, the place names that appear hereunder are all authentic.

Traffic Report, Sunday, April 17, 2005

My, my, gentle visitors, it's been too busy for words. Your humble contributor called away, last week, to Rome -- The Eternal City, Where All Roads Lead, Where The Buffalo, etc.

Thankfully, the air fares and hotel rates had receded slightly; though, we found the maid still cleaning up the room overlooking the Piazza di Spagna. "Scusa, scusa, Signore," she said, making the bed. "No problem, hon, take your time -- I just need a bottle of grappa and a place to put up my feet -- it's been a long flight."

Your humble contributor had come to meet with the Camerlengo to go over the settlement terms on the trademark suit with the St. Louis group. Just when things were wrapping up, the cardinal grabbed your humble Contributor's arm: "Howa bouta di papa?"

Of course, we had feared this might come up. "Look, padre, I know I could be elected, but I'm just not up for it right now. Capiche?" The cardinal looked crestfallen. "Ok, ok -- I'll try and help you out -- let's take a look at your line-up." He brightened and handed me the enrollment of the College.

Looking over the list: "I'll tell you what, padre, you got some heavy hitters here; a few minor leaguers; some ready to retire; some young prospects; some hall-of-famers. It's a tough call." The Camerlengo handed me a quill and gestured for me to mark-up the list. Hours scratching my head and scratching out names. Finally pared it down to nine. "Here. Just enough to field a team." "I don't get it," he said, "you know, the baseball," . "C'mon padre, your own guy was probably the best ever." He look mystified for a moment, then it dawned on him: "Si, si -- Giuseppe!"

Then, your humble Contributor circled a name on the list. "Here's your top pick, padre." The Camerlengo looked: "But, he's a no papabile." Your humble Contributor put on his jacket and picked up his briefcase: "They said that same thing about Rizutto. Just give me time to get home before your blow the white smoke. I don't want anyone to make the connection. And, toss that list in the chimney while your at it. Ciao." "Ciao. Graci, graci," he said, grasping the sheet.

Now, we're back home, filling the sede vacante. Come to find that someone is praising Green Acres, in derogation of a prior post, and that we had missed the birthday of Little Don (one of the poor relations). Gentle commenters, birthday greetings for Little Don would be greatly appreciated.

Traffic Report, Monday, February 28, 2005

February was gone before your humble Contributor fully realized that it was here. Then, he recalled that this forsaken and foreshortened month was named for Februus, the Roman god of death. This may explain some of your humble Contributor's more moribund posts, hereunder.

But, then again, Februus was also god of purification. Of course, this is yet another indication of the early Popish moving in on heathen turf, since Lent typically begins in February. But, some of our gentle visitors have reported experiencing a certain catharsis after viewing the relative tragedy and emptiness of these pages. A few report that it only made them shiver.

If only Augustus had left the month alone and not stolen a day to add another to his own month. To be sure, history has shown August to be august; but, how frustrating for the overwhelming majority of humanity never having whiled away the day on February 30th. One might daresy that most of us would leap at this opportunity -- but, ultimately, fall just short.

Nonetheless, we enter March with a kind of martial confidence. As it if were - as it once were -- the beginning of the year. Julius Caesar changed all of that, moving the new year back two months, deep into winter. And, look where that got him.

Just beware the Ides. It too brutal -- dude.

Traffic Report, Friday, February 04, 2005

Increased traffic means something else altogether sitting on the highway, barely stirring, on a Friday evening. The saddest thing lies not in the fact of it, but in the fact that we get used to it. Waiting for the brake lights to dim briefly to move forward.

So, this morning, back on the highway. After ten miles, the last full stream of traffic veers off, and we continue another thirty miles into higher elevations. Turn off at the Dismal Hollow -- aptly named -- winding, back and forth, beneath the highway. Light upon a Happy Creek , the rail cars rolling alongside. Hard turn on the Shores Road, crossing the tracks -- the valley coming into view. In the distance, the old North knob of Tree Tops stands forth. Pass by the Nurturing Mother. She is larger than before; but a larger, younger brood of hers suckles.

Wind down the Shores until it turns to gravel and comes towards an end. And, there she is -- the Daughter of the Moon and the Stars -- moving gently onward to the Place To Which Tribute Is Brought, where Oswatomie Brown came to set the captives free. The Old Man and the Stonewall once ran up and down her banks. Today, small gaggles of geese tread against her flow.

Another poor relation is here, shoring and restoring a cabin on stilts at the Daughter's edge. She is quiet now, as in most days; but, they say that if She ever rises up in fury and fullness, and sweeps away this abode, then the grandfather clause will pass, and they can build no more. But, the pillars here are strong -- two by two cinder block with veins of poured concrete and steel rod, fifteen feet into mother earth -- and the locals say She has never risen above the pillars.

Inside is cedar and a pot-bellied stove that glows with heat. Still some floor to be shod and such. On the cedar hang photos of poor relations -- some passed on -- the Mother, the Brother, the Wise Aunt; a picture of the Blessed Mother -- expectant, just beginning to show, moon and stars; a painting done by the Wise Aunt of a old, gravel road far away -- coming into view, curving slightly upwards, then passing out of view. Not a hint of traffic.