Thursday, September 7, 2006

A better blog, contrary to what I promised you earlier, may in fact be possible, though I wouldn’t suggest setting your clock to such a claim. Maybe “better” isn’t the word so much as more, where volume informed by a Sam’s Club sensibility promises to indulge after a month-long sabbatical. You know how Sam works, I’m sure. You’ll be taking entries by the dozen, consuming one, and leaving the rest to fester with mold.

The idea of more, I think, is a serviceable theme for the past few weeks. Life feels fuller, breathless, overwhelming at times, to the point where I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Part of me would like to believe I planned this move to the finest detail in a bid to put Edmond Dantes to shame, but my smarter self is infused with gratitude. This isn’t to say things are perfect, and on more than one occasion Spasticat has asked whether I feel like I’m drinking from a fire hose.

I had hoped tonight’s discussion would be borne by a seamless Internet experience, but Time Warner is diabolical in its persistence to sever the connection. I’m almost certain service is generated from a shack a few miles away, down by the old abandoned Johnson place, in a room filled with antebellum holdouts and their wretched slaves. This is unacceptable. Those slaves must run faster.