No man has found pure space, nor seen the outside curtains, where nothing has a place.
- “If You Could Hie to Kolob”
Good day my friends.
If my calendar reads correct it is the last Thursday in November. That can only mean one thing… Thanksgiving! And, Franklin D. Roosevelt rolls in his grave whenever it’s read out loud, but time has come for another installment of The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner. This annual mass communiqué is turning six, and I know no better way to celebrate than continue spewing nonsense and grammar challenged prose.
For those who have seen this locomotive before, it will be lipstick on a pig (or was it on a hockey mom’s pit-bull!?!). While those who are receiving it for the first time may just wonder what color “confused” is on the politico map. Nonetheless, I hope y’unz enjoy.
This year I’m thankful for a wonderful wife carrying our second child, his scheduled release date is penciled in for December One. Also, my fire-headed two year old gives me reason for thanks every season (Red for a reason they warned me). May she know the splendor her tiny shadow has cast over my world. Too a mother who still believes that all her children have places under wing; no matter their age or disposition. I Love you Mom!
To my family and friends across this great world, may happiness know you all. Thanks to those who have reconnected through social experiments in networking, and those continuing old friendships. To all, I believe every pole which snags sadness is a hook for getting trials in line. Front and center will joy be when newness for laughter infects times a’changen. It’s my understanding the naughty boys in cowboy hats will see what civility is when they reach the back of the line. Things are a’changen!
Unfortunately for Icarus the journey to the sun was lonely, while his Vulcan crew grew their wings out of admiration for totem’s arm length. As the remembered sing, Oh Mary don’t you weep no more, the kid emperor has Third Millennium Democracy! Even the right-man’s bogeymen are tired of putting new sails on sinking ships. The times are ready for anew.
As I leave dreams of axe’s karma and ghostmen on third, thoughts of foot steps belonging to the three who knew the winds of kindred agents, take hold. The carpenter understood it was a fall, not a failure. Slowly waking up to dawn’s whisper I still ponder - Is he a black man with a white mother, or a white man with a black father? No matter, those to come will know their comet came from the confines of our combustion chambers. May the sun save us from ourselves and cool breezes power the lands we have inherited.
On this special day set apart by the architect of a new deal so many years ago, let the defender be assured by the defended they’ll never be let down; because someone to die for is so more important than a cause to die for. Until next year, I wish wealth in your wallets and warmth in your homes.
Always wondering,
Jarvis
