And Measures Forgotten

Little Vincento was disgruntled to find that his prey had vanished so quickly, to continue on from yesterday. This is the advantage of a diverse variety of medical tools and saving ragged bits of cloth. I did not touch the mouse carcass, nor did my reacher, though I rinsed the claw off after I rolled the deceased like a cigar, deposited to the trash, as I might have done with Joey after he passed, and saved on my blood guilt but did not, and did the pedestrian thing, and it is done now in any case. Vinnie, more vicious than his sibling, extinguishes life quickly.

Judith Schwartz was on NPR yesterday, discussing hospice and end of life choices, and to me she sounded quite angry without necessarily being aware that she sounded that way, but her interview points to what I have been critiquing on the American left: We are processing our existence in such a way that it is bizarre and nearly inhumane, making me believe that elimination is in certain cases the best solution. Yes, that is scary, and possibly sucks, but life is not precious. That is only the cry of self-interest, of privilege, or in my case, the ambitious lack of it. I know, I know, senior housing is better than the horrors I have seen, I have computers, a television, and after nearly losing my life myself due to angry and crippled homosexuals threatening our parent company the way I am threatening that company now, I have two power chairs, minus nearly six thousand dollars of my savings, and cats. I do not have it so bad, but did, and have no guarantee that it will not get substantially worse for me very quickly. It may or may not, but my entire life has been managed, brutalized medically, and what, at fifty, rolling down that biological hill, do I have to show for it? Bylines, violins, drooling and barely literate fiance who was not to be below me in his hospital bed, who is managed so much more, giving case managers and angry minority men a salary, or a wage.

I am tired, my friends, and this class on Joyce was not the answer. No, it is not the fault of the young instructor Lance, and I will make an effort to make the best of it, build a bibliography, struggle to write a thankless but respectable essay or two, plodding.

I am also studying Measure for Measure again on my own; it is one of my favorite plays, difficult, Duke Vincentio's escapism difficult to fathom, Lucio's incendiary tongue less so perhaps, but still mysterious. I missed a production in Germantown it would have been interesting to see, but I did not want to go by myself by bus, and at the time, I did not think of querying Ed.

I am going to try to go to Joe's, late as it is, and will continue this thread later.