Thu, Mar 20, 2025, 6:01 AM Spring Equinox

I’m sitting in the office. Typing. I hauled out of my rack at 5:30 and headed over here. Dove right into this Post. Got something I want to talk about. Nothing Political. Course, everything’s political these days. First day of spring under normal times is when you feel you’re emerging from the dark tunnel of winter into the light. Problem is, there’s no light. Only a foul mist. A Bat Shit Zombie Grimness. Men with maggot souls wielding state powers. Anti-Popes blessing Rabid Dogs. While those who would protect us whimper like sickly orphans. And the few who oppose the many are paled by a vast indifference.

I could go on like this but what’s the point?

You know perfectly well how bad shit is….unless you’re one of them. There’s good people on both sides, Trump said in reference to the Charlottesville Nazis. “Very Good People.” If you happen to be one of those VERY GOOD PEOPLE your jubilation bubbles from your lips,

in a fetid saliva.

6:30 a.m. at the office. I’m thinking of Thomas Paine.

These are the times that try men’s souls

Read the crisis. Written in 1776.

In it Paine said, “The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country.” I am the summer soldier. I am the sunshine patriot. But even I (an old fart hanging on to my luck) even I have my limits. One day soon Old Gloomy’s gonna join a march. That’ll be the day when they strip me of Social Security and close the local V.A. hospital. This fiendish prick will corner me into a fight.

Beware the summer soldier and the sunshine patriot when they strip away his Social Security.

England 1819

But what goaded into this post was a poem I read yesterday…I don’t know what prompted me to read it…scrolling along It appeared…here’s what Percy Bysshe Shelly had to say:

ENGLAND IN 1819

An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king,—
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow
Through public scorn, mud from a muddy spring,—
Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know,
But leech-like to their fainting country cling,
Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow,—
A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field,—
An army which liberticide and prey
Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield,—
Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;
Religion Christless, Godless, a book sealed,—
A Senate—Time’s worst statute unrepealed,—
Are graves from which a glorious Phantom may
Burst to illumine our tempestuous day.

We’re in those times.

1819 is 2025.

All we can hope for is the Glorious Phantom. Whatever the fuck that is. A glimmer of hope, perhaps. The old, mad, blind, despised King is still very much alive and feeling his luck. But his Prince is having a bit of trouble at the moment.

Poor Elon.

That other thing I wanted to talk about?

I’ll save it for another post.