Happy Imbolc, my pagan friends. Or St. Brigid’s Day. What on earth is this holiday about, anyway?

Well, it is officially Black History Month. One of the people I admire most in the world is Martin Luther King, Jr.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

Langston Hughes wrote one of the most profound poems I’ve ever read:

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
Like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
Like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

What a wealth of culture; what amazing contributions to humanity.

And on a completely unrelated topic altogether, I have tried to look at journals located at my old host’s site. It appears to be down. To which I can’t help but say, in the fashion of Nelson on The Simpsons: “Ha, ha!”