Discombobulated.
It isn’t one of those words to be touted in relation to pride over one’s range
of vocabulary, but it’s syllable bumbling is sometimes best suited in
description when you give up on those technological extensions that raise human
to cyborg debates on popular science venues. I traded in my old Kindle
Paperwhite some scant days before my 57th birthday, and thought
Amazon, in consideration of the hundreds of dollars I spent on my original
models, would simply ship out the upgrade. Why do we have to keep paying, again
and again, particularly if we’re part of the entitlement class, which in the
States, is bundled into the capital acquisitions pyramid? After sorting out
that I had to indeed buy my new model, the tracking software places it as on its
way from a major sorting center in Newark. Meanwhile my left hemisphere might be
under vivisection. Kindles are vital tools when mobility is compromised,
transforms into a research extension for those of us who wanted career to surmount
family, to transform career into family, and then wind up with poverty’s sterility
on display. The smoothness we see in The Good
Wife is still fictive in this regard, the mere cookie cutter adaptations of
Michael J. Fox in his cashmere long coat as an emblem of his popularity, likability, yes, these things are important, even if the hygiene self-pity
issues are left to his memoir writing upon receipt of his diagnosis. You put it
out there in brazen fashion, but not too brazen, the tremors, the noveau riche
sensibility not so far removed from how success in Hollywood translates the
power of recognition. Writers take a somewhat different track, but we are all
gunning for the same thing, break ranks, then get subsumed by process law, process crimes. This is the complaint
these days, that the process is more important than the individual. Marie Callender is only a simulation of evocative conceits we harbor about the culinary comforts of southern hospitality.
Their branded pot pies are tolerable, nothing to wax ecstatic over in the convenient eclipse of their mass manufacture. My oeuvre, creatively, or journalistic, may not be important in comparison to those who've accelerated into the classics, but it is important to me, the preservation, even if the aging Beats assembled in Pittsburgh were anti-climatic, mostly rude, drunk, later memorialized by my most obsessed over professor, as he felt bad, it was actually the journey itself which is surprisingly a highlight of my burgeoned adulthood subconsciously more and more in alignment with Alex Keating's valiant attempt to put the bit on then the over reach of 40 something boomers. Five hours on Amtrak over verdant hillsides, Hershey, Jonestown, meeting Louis McKee. As both of us were Philly poets, he and I talked about mundane things working class born and bred discuss, bills, grants, the living dead of loneliness in my head, my cousin has a penchant for these playful images designed to milk out the last drop of a smile.
No comments:
Post a Comment