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That was the month that is, November 2009. So much happened in the scenes and distilleries of verbal magic. So many people came and went. All of us here writing and reading, we achieved so little and yet, so much. Across the spectrum in all its back-water of still side-pools and wells in a torrent of up-gushing filíocht, we spoke and spun us dealers of whatever appears in an application which delivers the literature and letters. Torqued by a 'technology of the intellect' rendered compliant, broadcasting our quarrel with the self that is poetry and rhetoric made into a global business: our market two to three million. The one percent of everyone alive with some level of proficiency with and in this language not of our forebears, rendered compliant by another's language not their own - ours now - sown within at brutal cost, the thwacking anglo-saxon hammer in Latin, full span across the spectrum, a Language that binds and divides us, the 2 billion with a smattering of English. A two to three hundred million customer potential, the one percent of 'us': just being born now - not then - offers an advantage because of this linqua franca, universal european representitive of a west-world ethic, race reared on the tv technologies by invisible gods, absent ones alive to all but most, as what image? Ourselves, 'us', bored to the bone, bad right through, full time appalled, always looking out to knee you in the balls, gnawed gone to that nothingness in the current competitive state of being on a scene so sealed by wearing a shirt for self-first, 'me' and me the imaginary anonymous anyone and unborn dead yet to ventriliquze us once the race is run: us and 'them', we're all very much the same, identical in every single aspect of importance - two legs, arms, hands, ear, nose, a container of the lens that is us with consciousness - manifesting vibrational energies into ..this looking phantom visible whole made into our show, with what technology of the intellect we possess. Language it is 'us' 'here' in this space, huddle, self-help symbol and support of one another as haters, lovers, rivals and, ultimately - performers. What a performance thus far and it only early in December. There's plenty of time for us to start a row, have a big scene swapping letters of outrage and taking issue, agreement, smoothing the way for a read-through at the recital, advertising in this corner where sophistication haunts the very walls and doors, drains and bridges, all you need is stuff, stuff, stuff - stuff is all we need, yeah yeah yeah. The party time is nearly upon us, and i was just gonna ask if y'all wanna Xmas do, for the favourite few of you who I respect as mental patients in therapy here where it's all so very very experimental, hey, dearest deserters from the one wrong till, tallying it all so very forward edge, so very worthwhile and not a little unexpensive, if such a scene exists - where is it now, please, if not right here now, right, sheeple? ~ Take no notice of my lunacy - tis been a strange month. Last Septmeber, i imagined to have hit ollamh, but with the conscious and unconscious realm divided by quarterly periods and moon-cycles, the quarrel within with Self, though we cross rubicons and arrive at platforms where the life-long light of Learning first came on, in the early part of the year it was before the ollamh woke first to consciousness, after the six month catch up. Though I guessed it in Spetember, this was only an intuitive knowing. The latest in a guessing game of hocus pocus and supernatural business end of what it is, the quarrel within our own Self, the technology of the intellect, both process and self-wrought ironing van, staple to heart and head, a mass of many things that is, everything perhaps, in that binary focus the knowing-ones were taught in the schools and whose live within the annals as blue-print how-to guide for us in the guild of verbal magicians being oh so very foreward edge, guessing what will come before it happens, being a magician in print, keeping the eye fixed on what quarrel's outpouring from within, reflection of the universe, olfactory 'n aural, sight and speech, hear that sound anew, the new sound system for poetic belief, from the regular poetry ecetera members, keeping it real, teaching, spreading belief and oh so very forward, exciting, ready to back each other up when our reputation's discussed behind open citadel doors, scurrying across to what chief knowers instruct us to make, luvvie luvvie. Crazy times. Desmond Swords Normal Illinois.