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This is Day 14 of the Death Cold, the Andromeda Strain, the Satan Bug -- whatever the Center For Disease Control winds up calling it somewhere on a back-link of an obscure medical website no longer useful as public caution but safe place enough to risk shock data one is 'responsible' for.
It lives.
It's played with my larynx, my uvula, my nasal lining, and is squeezing the walls of my pulmones, tickling my bronchii.
I sometimes wail to the heavens for pity, but the gurgle hardly leaves my crusted lips before a flash of sunlight teases the blinds long enough to heat the room and contrast its interior damp.
HAILEY GOT A BOOB JOB
SHE DID IT FOR JON
said the headline, and although I don't know who Hailey is, I'm certain that like any Hailey, she did it for some john.
The photo showed a woman accompanied by either a) Jon, or b) a plastic surgeon. That man looked a great deal like the actor Peter Coyote circa 1987.
It makes one feel more 'tuned in with the world', more 'part of the greater community', eh wot?
Swift? Hardly anything, nor will there be done.
Schiller. An opening project?
Foreign language grand opera. A matter of breaking down resistance in order to spend much of a life bathing in its reputed glories.
Rabelais. Henry Miller. "In The Mood". "Four Or Five Times". Am I? Certainly couldn't.
Pragmatists see mistakes as a needed part of progress, and archive them.
Existentialists progress by concentrating on mistakes, and keeping light on them.
Every time a selection plays from the canon of Great American Songbook plays,
I reach for a Scotch.
Still incredulous finding out that Theodore Roosevelt flossed his teeth.
Starbucks, this morning.
Just left the premises when a sneezing fit from my (now) fifth day of cold
Had me herky-jerking the Venti drip,
Its hot, black liquid heaving into the air
Through the sip spout
Like salt water expelled from the hump of a narwhal.
Waking up with:
C'est moi qui vive
Did I dream that in French or translate that existentiality in half-sleep?
Silver cell phone, palm-fit, elegant as a cigarette lighter.
All I need is a pencil-thin mustache, dinner jacket, and the ambiance of a 40s nightclub staffed with a small orchestra discharging rhumba rhythm.
What's this? My pants are ringing.
I like large ones, yes.
I like, also, small ones.
I like gigantic ones, really.
But I'm very partial to the ones that barely show themselves.
The bottom drops out at a moment's notice
Isn't that part of a bottom's definition?
The world changes in a snap
Not seedy, but brittle, fragile, held in place with more than just easy care. Hemmed in by
effect of matured landscaping and the greater vehicular traffic at the surround. By the first
adult perspective, not having the open-edges youth leaves unnoted.
In no one place
Possessor of many, of lots
Deedless, the traveller.
The only bad thing about trips is the travel.
There's always a camp for us within building distance.
One's only an angry look, a bad mood, a whistle away.
This thought: whatever she's selling I'll buy two.
This thought: pet animals born now will outlive me.
Our intuition has held for a long time the nothing that is a something.
Our empiricism has begun to show us that vast something that is nothing.
Great debunkers we are, and at once great spiritual adventurers --
Being two is both a feather in our cap and a backhanded compliment.
My alabaster skin unsure of its place in t-shirt and shorts and mocassins.
Leg swung over the couch arm: "got to cool my crotch off."
The Chumash word for 'Malibu' seems cognate to 'humanity's humility' or some such portmanteau.
It means "where the surf sounds loudly".
Mainstream journalism never rocks the boat. It creates special effects lightning to draw attention to itself.
Some storm! Stability at any cost to ensure survival and self-importance. Moral dilemmas only if they include a good benefit package. Disney waves.
