I have pm-ed my friends about the alarming lack of Art James for eleven days now.

best artists' rendition of the good farmer..

I am not equipped emotionally to deal with an OS sans Mr. James. Thus selfishly I must inquire after his situation. I say “selfishly” because reading his wild poetic comments sends off  creative cascades of neuronal activity in my often dull frontal cortex. That place just behind my forehead. Where my newly evolved (speaking evolutionarily) brain spaghetti resides.

Here is the last we heard of the gentle bearded angel of our better nature…it was on his last post,

Photos: Read Tags: No gulp many brew-hops. No Gulp Gin?

……………………………

I admit I teased him a bit. Pulled his beard, haw.

I said, apropos his 24 rating,

“seems that mr. arthur james is now a super star..
several dozens of comments on his blog.
my fear? that he will become ego-inflated &
lose his edge.
This happens alot to old codgers suddenly thrown into the spotlight.
It happened to wordworth. his words were worth not much
as he got older,
but
coleridge continued to thrive.
opium was his muse.
Still, he published B.Literati whilst "addled by addiction".

What was said of Coleridge might apply to art james?
"the practical intellects of the world did not much heed him,
or carelessly reckoned him a metaphysical dreamer:
but to the rising spirits of the young generation
he had this dusky sublime character;
and sat there as a kind of Magus,
girt in mystery and enigma;

whispering strange things, uncertain whether oracles or jargon."
(Carlyle!)

‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’

3 minutes later, a response:

“No worry . . . We people can always bet that . . .
W will surely Stub our toe, nose, or pee pants.
I am off the blogs for a bit. I have enjoyed them.
Great folks are here. Diversity. I get hacked`gin.
Enough!
`
Thank You . .
I price coffins.
They cheap . . .
But in Canada.
`
James M.E.
bloggers brag
they outlive Doc
their cardiologist
`
`
a haiku instructor
bets on the lame six horse
in the very last race
`
My computer is broken.
No ask editor to fix it.
editor check dipstick.
help him lift a hood.
editor read books.
browse cook books.
stack high in outhouse.”

…………………………………………….

  So: broken computer hacked again. “Enough!” he says.

This pricing of coffins, though..and mention of cardioligists….it raises alarm bells…for we all know Art is capable of constructing his own coffin, certainly. And outsmarting  cardiologists, as well.

…………………………………………………

I tell myself he will return.

………………………………………………………………

Well, until he does, I shall take up his mantle of absurd cutting gentle wisdom, even though I have never milked a moo cow, or grown nutritious vegetables , or had a beef with Kerry, or found pleasure in blueberries, or had dealings with Amish, or been in Vietnam, or been to a VA hospital to spread human hospitality (in this, he reminds me of Whitman, who gave up verse in order to be a nurse, to Civil war veterans.)

……………………………………………………………………………

Talk not so much, then, young artist,

of the great old masters, who but painted and chisell’d.

 Study not only their productions.

There is a still higher school for him who would kindle his fire with coal

from the altar of the loftiest and purest art.

 It is the school of all grand actions and grand virtues, of heroism,

 of the death of patriots and martyrs —

 of all the mighty deeds written in the pages of history —

 deeds of daring, and enthusiasm, devotion, and fortitude.

§  "Talk to an Art-Union (A Brooklyn fragment)"  Walt Whitman, another mighty bearded one.