Laura is turning into a major muse.
Dear Combobulatrix: How I would like to sit and just draft for you for an hour or so. I would tell you a tale of two snakes — a red one and a white one, and an empty stadium. It is a dream, but nothing to delight — it is a tale of repetition and breathless panic. Yet a depth and love in myself, unknown in my daily experience, lies hidden — seized and obscured. A blogpost? Yes, but …. not quite yet.
Also, it is late and I have to be somewhere tomorrow for my aunt’s 50th ordination anniversary — celebrating her entry into the clergy. It happens to be an important 50th anniv. for me too — that was the day when at 3 1/2 I learned the best way to encourage your aunt to give it all up for God was to hang onto the zipper at the top of her dress when she puts you down on the ground. Sadly, I was also forced to learn, a while later, that this is actually not the golden ticket for ALL the ladies. You may remember a vaguely reported incident at Margaret Thatcher’s first inaugural ceremony……..
Only I and a few now deceased MI5 personnel have ever known the actual details. And in truth, I cannot say I know, for there are some things a man cannot cognize, and later may only speculate as to the nature of his own life’s events. Let’s just say — her moniker as the Iron Lady is shrouded in a rather different vapor of mystery for me than it may be for some others, and sometimes I am grateful for my limitations.
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Dear C: “Hope is the last to die” seems quite optimistic to me. If I died hopeful, that would be an accomplishment. As things are I think my death will be an act of defiance, and perhaps that is even a little better. Not defiance of the Great Spirit of Life that is also the Spirit of Death when the moment is most correct, but defiance of my own character — as a semi-professional douche. My arrival at this character has been an awful chaotic and demeaning deluge of drug abuse, poverty and homelessness. What began as a journey of self-awareness by an annoying and self-unaware (but humorous!) young man ended in a pool of misery in a ten year old Dodge van in the East Village. Saturated with cocaine, vodka, and hopelessness, perhaps the only positive punctuation of the miasma of that time was an inglorious, furtive relationship with the ladies of print and pixel. Rather a poor way to keep suffocating dreams alive.
The years leading up to the time in the van and those since will take much unwinding; in the present, however, matters are such that my dialysis driver and I have developed an excellent rapport on the basis of a fantastic shared lewdness that makes it easier to not think of other things. It seems the instant of coalescence of this rapport was my failed attempt to throw something in need of decomposition out of the car window, prompting LeAnn to call me a dink, at which point I reminded her that it was still June, and she was therefor still Vermont’s Featured Slunt o’ de Month (pron. “munt”), and the proper term is douche anyway. At which point the term “douche nozzle” was introduced into the conversation, and I was forced to consider the subject with more seriousness.
Lewdness is one of the many enriching human qualities that goes underappreciated in a regressive, neo-puritan country that thinks of itself as progressive. Not only progressive, but just overwhelmingly superb. Here, selfishness is a virtue and ignorance a necessity. But back to lewdness for a moment. In the same way that cruelty and survival yield the basis for comedy, biological moisture and recklessness form the joint basis for lewdness, and it is a fecund social condition.
Dear Laura, I know you’re on the edge of your seat now, but I may have to work on this a little more in private. Do you know that Immanuel Kant composed most of his Kriteek of Pyour Reezin standing in buckets of ice water? You may also have been unaware that he was American. I learned this myself just recently in a thread on a social media network.
So it is that I have to consider the rigor of my working environment, and adhere to strict social network principles in my composition. Plus I just ate a turkey burger at the new place in town, and my stomach is not doing well. I think it must have been less than 4 oz. for $7.50, so it is not certain if the gastric rebellion is chemical or economic in nature.
Well I’m really working it here. It’s like that boring moment at 8:30 when the bar is only partly full of the people you’d rather not see, and you can’t get drunk quick enough.