Change on commenting
All comments will now be individually approved. I will get to them when I get to them; I am not a professional blogger and only have sporadic access to the internet most days (during the daytime) via cellphone. More evenings than not are also packed with activity.
Like a fool, I expected that since this was a tiny blog with few visitors, that folks would be respectful enough not to say anything in print that they wouldn’t say in person (translation: and perhaps have to back it up with their ass). Yeah, I know. Quit laughing.
Anyway, it is what it is. There is some shit that went on in that post that had I been here at the time, I would not have allowed through. But I can’t be here very often, and I can’t (as one person, remember? single mother? two jobs?) keep to the same moderating practices that large blogs of multiple people across the globe who have all day access to their blogs via large computer screens and fast internet connections. Can’t do it, won’t do it, and it’s ridiculous to expect that of me.
This isn’t about “play nice”. It’s about basic human respect. I, and most of the people who comment here are not the kind of folks who get that indulgence often. Because of that, I expect folks to “get it”. Those that don’t, aren’t going to have their comments published. I’m not going to host garbage.
And yep, I’m an uppity bitch.
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mother, daughter, granddaughter, great-granddaughter, niece. only child. curse in 2 languages. background is meridionale, terrona, pagana, tho’ i am mmericana. my people come from Sicily, up in the mountains where Hades captured Persephone. then they came to Ellis Island, Chicago, and points south…time doesn’t heal all wounds but music almost does…hyperbolic, hyperaware, hypersensitive, hyperactive…mind set to flowing all directions simultaneously, winding over and under and behind and through like Styx…snap reflexes ‘cuz i’m still a survivor, still know where the exits are, still look for weapons & the defensive position, still picking up the pieces…journeyman wireman, 5th generation trade unionist, rustbelt consciousness, old-school labor activist in the vein of Eugene V. Debs (“while there is a lower class I am in it, while there is a criminal element I am of it, and while there is a soul in prison I am not free”). visit the grave of Mother Jones once a year. lean hard to the left like the good end of the radio dial and the low end of the guitar…inveterate bookworm, lover of words written and spoken. savor the expressive cadence of the unexpected and mostly unsaid. feel the undercurrents and invisible turbulence, look beneath the surface, revel in the exquisite passion of what irish soulman/road opener Van Morrison calls the “inarticulate speech of the heart”. like to blow the dust off buried treasure/buried truth…been driving up/down I-55 between Chicago & St. Louis since some of it was still Route 66. been cooking sugu before there was “italian seasoning”. carry home in my heart, not under my feet. stamina and resilience. raw nerves and sore muscles. low voice and full-throated howl…….this is La Lubu.
Pacing & Howling
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