Tuesday and it’s still dreary


God do we need his voice. His humor. His outrage. His go-for-the-jugular lunge for the truth.

Now more than ever. What we don’t need are more “objective” reporters. Sometimes you just have to call a liar a liar; a moron a moron; a killer a killer; open your eyes, people.

I’m a little tongue-tied here. That will have to change, but I don’t think it will be this evening. I just don’t have it in me right now.

So I leave you with a little Rimbaud:

“The Poet makes himself a seer by a long, gigantic and rational derangement of all the senses. All forms of love, suffering, and madness. He searches himself. He exhausts all poisons in himself and keeps only their quintessences. Unspeakable torture where he needs all his faith, all his super-human strength, where he becomes among all men the great patient, the great criminal, the one accursed – and the supreme Scholar! Because he reaches the unknown! Since he cultivated his soul, rich already, more than any man! He reaches the unknown, and when, bewildered, he ends by losing the intelligence of his visions, he has seen them. Let him die as he leaps through unheard of and unnamable things: other horrible workers will come; they will begin from the horizons where the other collapsed!”

The “other horrible workers” are us, people. Let’s try to keep it true.

And hopefully, let’s try to find it in our own voice.