God is good.
God is good. Like Billy Joe Shaver he gave me a way to go. A place to write my thoughts, here at the goo-roo watch blog. Here because the problem is cash flow, and here because the answer is Jesus. He has given us Facebook and how do we use it? We clam up and put a big scowl on our face and dare any asshole to even think for one second that I would be so whatever to post anything ever in my lifetime on facebook or make any comment and getting a thumbs up like out of me ever for as long as you live would be whenever pigs fly.
But he has given us social media. And there are those who are one hundred and ninety-five percent the other way and go so far as to post on twitter thirty-seven times a day and put up youtube videos and they say there are over a million of 'em that even do only fans. Jesus said you can't be a prophet in your own home town. So I thought as I worked on my filing system and my office operations, the office that I always wanted ever since I ever wanted anything, the beautiful office up above the ground in a tall building in the city. Well my dreams have evolved I suppose would be the word for it and I find myself to be quite happy with what God has given me today.
So whilst going about my business this morning, I thought I might like to make a little facebook post, after a couple of days of not posting anything, about Wolf Larsen. Because just as I tried to explain to Bill at that bar in Littleton, Colorado in nineteen eighty-three when I was so stupid I must have had dried cement between my ears but Dad I guess had done all he could in his mind although because he never had facebook or a blog and we have lost everything he had ever written and that was me even now losing all of his letters like an arrogant fool that I am to think I woudn't like to sit and read his letters as an old man getting ready to go see him again. But here is what I wanted to post to facebook today and I will.
The captain, or Wolf Larsen, as men called him, ceased pacing and gazed down at the dying man. So fierce had this final struggle become that the sailor paused in the act of flinging more water over him and stared curiously, the canvas bucket partly tilted and dripping its contents to the deck. The dying man beat a tattoo on the hatch with his heels, straightened out his legs, and stiffened in one great tense effort, and rolled his head from side to side. Then the muscles relaxed, the head stopped rolling, and a sigh, as of profound relief, floated upward from his lips. The jaw dropped, the upper lip lifted, and two rows of tobacco-discolored teeth appeared. It seemed as though his features had frozen into a diabolical grin at the world he had left and outwitted.
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