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Aside from the horror of working with this piece of software I wrote and never finished, to which there are enhancements screaming at me (or maybe that's one of the neighbor kids out in the tree that's going to fall on my house,) to imp.ement, I've remembered or rediscovered why it is that I don't write here anymore: I'm not in the B L O G O S P H E R E anymore. I do not occupy that same space. Since posting here a few days ago for the first time in months I've been following the links in my sidebar to the other weblogs I used to frequent, and I'm amazed to see that most of them are still going as strong as ever. I can't seem to do anything always. I can't balance the this with the those things.

Some moons ago I stopped writing here, stopped reading everyone else's weblog, stopped following everyone's links; then I stopped paying so much attention to politics and stopped following what the hell anyone's talking about in the hopes of having something to talk about later. So I'm currently right now re-paraphrasing my already unstable constabulation of assault up there: I'm not in the A N Y T H I N G S P H E R E anymore.

Again, not true. Those other occupants of this consciousness have overtaken this one a lot in the past months. I've

HOW IS IT THAT THIS WOULDN'T BE BORING? I'm out of the loop so I've got nothing to talk about that's related to the loop. And

It's not the case, clearly, that I've got nothing to talk about. The case is that I'm out of the practice of talking about the particular brand of nothingness that I'd inexpertly sunk my claws into here when this place was in its hay. When I'm in that state this is what you get -- three days of me talking about how I don't talk about anything. Then I go away, occupying those more comfortable places. So I stay out of practice, and the squublog becomes nothing more than a lot of disconnected instances of boring rants about how I can't properly rant.

I will now