Ok, there’s going to be some big changes around here—but I don’t know what that’s going to look like yet. Frankly, everyone I like to read has moved to tumblr, and….I’m rapidly finding out that tumblr is the most user-unfriendly, difficult to set up and use blogging interface EVER. As in “FUCK THIS SHIT!!!” I have a bad cold, it’s been a long week, it’s too cold outside (don’t even want to think about what the heat bill is going to look like), and I just spent two hours trying to set up my tumblr account. There is no fucking instructions; I can’t change the fucking photo (the oh-so-unhelpful instructions say something about “settings”, but there is no “settings” on the fucking dashboard, especially not on the right-hand-fucking side like the unhelpful instructions say, there’s some shit called “tumblr radar” that I could give a fuck about and tried to figure out how to get rid of, but come to find out isn’t posted on the tumblr itself—just the dash. Gee, that woulda been a lot easier to figure out if tumblr had an easy way to see what the hell a post looked like. But noooo—when you go to the “customize” screen, it takes you to some shit that you haven’t posted. WTF. I’m none too thrilled about their themes, either.
Anyway. Rant over. I’m going to pour a hot toddy, curl up in the easy chair with a book (Who Fears Death by Nnedi Okorafor), and when 8:00PM rolls around I’m going to watch the boxing matches with my dad. The tumblr experiment will have to wait for another time—-and will probably continue to wait until it’s as easy as wordpress.
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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