time passes, as it has long been observed to do. the quality of that passage varies wildly. achingly slow, with each wedge of the clock face growing imperceptably like a stalactite, or painfully fast, with clock faces forgotten in a mess of blurred dots and double digits. groan, grumble, curse the sun, no matter as the days pass, as fingers twitch toward your poor prostate, as hopes for silver hair counterbalance the dread of none. the one and only certifiable quality of time remains true, that there is too little of it for you.

what is this all about? well mainly that i feel regret at never posting here at philology. truth be told it is the reason i started this site in the first place, to guilt/pride myself into writing more, but, alas, as the dates clearly show, i have not been successful. it’s been an unbearable length of time. inexcusable for a young webmaster! ah well. by way of explanation, or if you prefer, excuse, let me invoke the irrefutable: life is hard. yes, that’s right. life is hard. been so busy doing every other god damned thing i have not managed to find the time to do this one. to write. to let off steam. to blather and bemoan. to cuss and cringe and cut to the heart of it. sure i can post links over at zeitgeist, but to just loosen the tongue and speak? to play? to type without a net? too much effort my adorable friends and enemies. too much a task to take on without time. kna mean?

so. the days, the days and all their… nah.

so, the night. the night, the dark and… nope. not even close.

so… the babies! the babies who stole my friends are cute but can’t yet speak, so who knows what their demands are? they have deliberate names, sweated over, and faces left up to chance (or God if you’re into that kind of kinky shit.) they are the pride of their bearers. genes set in motion like dice. i imagine them wriggling in their cribs. gummy and round faced with wispy hair. crying out in the night. napping like naked seal pups in the day. this was the year they began the onslaught. i mean, it’s never so much as slowed really, but this time, it’s personal. i think of their wild eyes. i read once the world to a newborn is like a perpetual acid trip; those new senses shivering and flailing about. i think of their wild eyes, wide, looking up, those of their parents, alternately awed and knowing, looking down. i think of their voices. their crazy language. i think of those soft little fists that will some day come down hard on their parent’s hearts. ha ha. yeah. time has changed now in those homes.

what is this all about? well, like i said, it’s about making time. it’s about new borns and getting old. it’s about bubble, bubble, toil and trouble. little brains expanding by the second to make room for saccharine song lyrics. old brains, exploding cells with every beer and epiphany, leaving less and less room. oedipal anxieties and bottle schedules or your dreams of being a living giant, choose young father! as i well know from those happy faces it’s no choice at all. it’s about the evening as much as the day.

so, this evening the television is cold and quiet, though the day was warm. this machine i sit at hums as diligently as ever, but tonight i just wanted to dip my toe back in philology and say hello. so there you go. hope tonight finds you well, whether there is diaper in your hand or a whiskey. or both. good times.