I was here before Premium. Before Mini’s. Before Pulse. I was here, writing poetry, when myspace was popular and Facebook didn’t exist. I was here.
I bounce off the most rec’d blogs and tour around xanga, looking for poets and writers and keep finding standard bloggers that carry on about this or that. I feel like I could trade over to Hello Poetry or some other site and see what I could do. I could post more on those other writing sites. But the Xanga layout has always appealed to me the most. It’s so fully customizable, and yet also user friendly, you can create an environment that fits your style, your writing, your personality. I liked Xanga when we were still coding in Html in the Look & Feel. When Netscape Communicator was my browser of choice. When Walmart had built their first store in town, and K-Mart went bankrupt.
Maybe I just stayed too long like that crusty drunk in the bar. I stayed here, I kept writing here, because it was homely, it was familiar, and it seemed right. Lots of the old writers are gone, some of them even dead, and I find I miss those writers and the things they shared. Now, their Xanga’s, like so many other pages in this web, stand as memorial tombstones for the writer that was.
I called up memories trimmed with old joys
I collected my journals and all my old toys
I brushed the spines on the books lining the shelves
and linger in the worlds and the story they tell.
I’ve preserved my ways to keep my comforts near
and practiced patience and temperance to banish my fear
for one day, I’ll die, and it will come soon enough
and all these superfluities will seem mystic fluff
of one persons story, too quickly forgotten
like the flesh and the bones, broken and rotten.