I have learnt that tilting at windmills renders one susceptible to appearing in caricature on t-shirts, beer mats and other undignified expressions of the vacancy at the heart of human society, that overheated termite heap.  As such, I have resolved to tilt at windmills no more. Instead, I will chronicle my times, which are both of and not of this time, which is your time, or so I presume (if it is not, I would like to hear from you). To make things more interesting for me, I have resolved that this chronicle, or soap opera, will be produced in rigorous verse form — sonnets and sestinas for choice, enlivened, I hope, by the occasional volkskwatryn. I reserve the right to make use of others’ material when inspiration is lacking or time withdraws its permission.