The shortwave WYBE feed Crime Scene Cleaner has an uppity nuanced humor, perhaps playing against Dick Wolf, and if not, certainly toying with class consciousness that still exists on the continent against the German working class in a contemporary urban mode, and yet, there is something fragile in Germany's shallow laughter at itself, not that Pegida is truly anything to worry about. Pegida is a kind of icing over a stalemate of egalitarian deceit.
If I had actually grown up Roman, as opposed to American, I would have been taught by grandmother Lillian to sit on a balcony, watching pedestrians on scooters, with quiet acceptance, but then again, I would not have survived my birth in the Italy of Fellini's Dolce Vita, and my inner voice is telling me my life is finished, I waited too long, and regardless of what I do, Pennsylvania's ineptitude has essentially made me grist for the mill. My poet friend, over 17 years now he has absorbed my accordion rhythms with Cisco panache, hard to believe-- and he might even point out I did not have to remind him how long we've applauded each other, he was nice enough to send me an email, and in my response, for once, I kept a lid on it, but I need to move on now before it becomes impossible, and it very nearly already is. I cannot go back into a home; I can't, but I cannot be like Frank, or Sherry and have my life dictated by low skill labor which borders criminality. And in those microcosms of self-interest, our relevance is increasingly precarious, unless we're engineers with a complex grasp, or microbiologists airily tweaking millions of years of evolution.
Mass extinction is one thing, a monkey aware that the caboose is hurling toward disastrous consequences is another. I am hoping that by February if I pull hard on the creative community I can find temporary housing of some sort.
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