Look Ma, #203

The Lotus Eaters dragged me out of bed early this morning. They stuck me under the shower and poured consciousness into my gullet and here I am. Those girls get on my nerves. Carl Gustav and Ikkyu have been up for hours arguing economics, their half-heard voices a background as Jules Renard and Lucullus stand in the kitchen creating a symphony of clanging pots and clinking glasses, trying to outdo each other with breakfast but it was Kaldi who gave me what I needed; a hot cut of coffee. I don't see Cu Chulainn or Epona and can only guess they've taken the guard dog out for a run. Just as well, Evy gets very insulted if I pay too much attention to either hound.

I have been poked and prodded all night by reconstructed memories and jimmied and jabbed by half-truths and pure fiction, all because today is the first anniversary of this little collection of rants from the basement. Just as our dead become more real and influential as time passes, these posturings have paved my soul with a solace, solid and steady, that nonetheless sometimes disappears out from under my feet when I least expect it. Such is the nature of reality and I will not begrudge a single moment of it.

To the Fabulous Bee, the Cracker, The Prophet, the Photo to my Words, El Jefe, She, Evy, G-spot as well as Two Dogs and Anonymous and to Cato and Susan...Thank you. Without your antics I would never have anything to say.

To my flat-mates, you mordantly cantankerous lot, keep it down. I'm trying to sleep. Damn freeloaders. Now, where's my breakfast?