More Rainy Glimpses

I was going to frump off, retire with my kindle, weigh making a facetious comment about incorporating a partnership with @PhillyEBooks (waves), but then caught a small, oscillating surge, and decided to have my dining coffee with you. This is my last cup of coffee for the evening, trying to listen to Jeffrey Brown and remember what I want to write at the same time, but I just shut the news off. Listening to ourselves talk on television can fray sensory input as badly as surfing does sometimes. The one thing we all do well, the literate, the less so, the gang banger, Islamic terrorist and or their supporters who utilize rhetoric to radicalize, is talk. Listening is another matter, as is controlling our own narrative. Everyone wants to tell me what to do. Lesbians who I tried to engage with social equality want to tell me who I can, and cannot date, and then slide the therapy tray through the slot in my jail cell; the Presbyterians want to regulate my housekeeping and go back to interpersonal conflicts with attendants. Some people in this building, like my ex, like Erik, are nearly married to the minorities who just barely keep them out of nursing homes, and this is the situation I will find myself in once again very soon, which compels my urgency for a fresh environment. My father's sister too, has earned her rights as a matriarchal dictator, and we spent the afternoon arguing loudly about why I cannot collect my mother's payroll taxes into her Social Security. I can't, this used to be my job, and the qualifying systems are different for the benefits that SSA administers. A slightly known secret is that Italians can hate each other the most, and you may picture me raising my hand in affirmation.

Richie, if you happen to surf by my account on blogger, I love you and your mother and remember what you told me some years ago about leaving her alone. Well, you may consider this my come-uppance. Tua madre is driving me crazy.

When I wrote the first glimpse earlier, in September, I wanted to do something I rarely do in blogging, and talk about my writing, and I wanted to combine this in a more elegant fashion with listening to Jeremy Irons-- Tavis too, as I was interested to note the gravelly interviewer say he hated his voice, and then I lost the thread of what I wanted to do because I was actually defecating dangerously, and thought I was on the verge of a cardiac event. For an unemployed poet-journalist, whose lack of structure creates the boredom and illusion of endless time, battling the urgency of my vulnerability, my actual work suffers egregiously, including the medical article which is a distorted refraction in the cloud of my aging neurons. I did something stupid, or daring, depending on which way you look at it, and purchased a course on Ulysses, and I rather hate Irish literature, although my entire adult life has been built around Jerry, this unfortunate fellow is spastic's interpersonal mythology, and sometimes I hate myself over it. I used to dream that he and John would come to get me, rescue me, resolve things, and in a miracle of biology I would slap John Tassoni violently across his face, like a Joan Crawford, in my own soap opera, and Jerry would say something cutting, sardonic, relieving the tension.

Google crushed this little psychological comfort of mine. I'd flee either man now, literally. I never saw myself on the inside of status culture, like Rowling, but I also did not see myself as a lifelong and doomed ward of the state. We'll pick up on my work another day.