and heave ho the Eighth of January, and get that last quarterly 1040ES in by 1/15, and then more weeks will come and go, and in them the dogs will get loose again, and a neighbor will scream a stream of undecipherable invective. At me. And I will not kill the dogs. They got baths yesterday.
And a bit of a hair touch-up for the girl dog. (I know what you're thinking.)
I was invited to a party which takes place today, the day on which, annually, I (mostly we) threw a party 32 years in a row. One after the other. Until there was no party that needed to be. Just a walk in the woods, a howling neighbor, an orange soda (HEB brand), anti-depressants, and wavering, shimmering knowledge of my failings and failures. (I worked about 30 hours on ad music Dec 30 and 31, 2011, and may well fail to sell any of it. At midnight last night, I was adding a mellotron track. Happy New .....? !). For more than 32 years there was so much music in my life, it was almost entirely forbidden, absent from the New Years Day party. I have no music playing now. I have my mind, in which are still swimming melodies. These are not helpful in the current minimalist music world --- perhaps my melodies are just too maximal....... sorry, self-indulgent digression))))))))------------->
My body aches from nothing in particular. My list of deceased friends lengthens every week, it seems. Pneumonia (never had it), cancer (might, haven't really checked) ((Fight Cancer with a CheckUp and a Check!)). Heart attack? Not many. More: drug overdose. Liver disease.
Auto incident. Gun.
The new New Yorker Talk of the Town opens with a piece by R. Angell on letters v. email. Nostalgic. Check my blog of 10/5, my first on email. And its dangers. Angell spends more time recalling the inimitable intimate life-giving aspects of the post card, the letter. Angell is limp. Not a right Angell, not a wrong Angell.
I like to think of the New Yorker as about a week ahead of Jon Stewart, 2 weeks ahead of Time/Newsweek, a month or so ahead of the gov'nment. I recall a story of successful job hunting in the wonk world, success achieved by promoting as ones own the US communist party line of about 1955. We had one then, illegal, but alive.
An illegal party. There will be gumbo.
These are my choices. 1 Reclusion 2 A party in which the wind picks up from the cold north 3 Close my eyes tightly and repeat "There's no place like home...there's no place like home...."
That's for sure. Do you have a way to get there from Oz? or perhaps this Bermuda Triangle?
(And what exactly is triangellation?) ((March Fourth! I go east then.))
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment