What gets through

is a near rhyme, mound, for found, or sound, or whoever plays with words gets burned by words or maybe just thoughts, hard to tell anymore, so little goes as hoped, planned or intended these days, it makes me wonder if it ever really did in the first place, and then I realize I am hungry, too late at night again, who decided we can’t eat Brazilian food or a good italian dinner any time day or night? I suppose those of us who wander the land, looking for something, running from something, in limbo or completely numb nuts, no in between, except all the grey areas.

This is not even how I think or what I care about, really, but I am too overwhelmed by the reality of the situation to have much perspective on the matter. So I must go back into raw gush memoir mode try to catch the crazy while you can because you won’t want to remember it much less relive it so the only hope is to hawk one’s wares, as words, the minions of speech, the inglorious bastards of ruining our every hope, of misunderstandings that lead to much worse things – and then again, I can’t see straight, I am so back and forth, from rock steady to on the buoy, hoping I survive the night, and a rescue raft floats by, only to see the sunrise and realize I can swim ashore–but there’s nothing there?

Sweet bliss and joyous cavernous lush leaves of hubris, where those went I don’t know but they are part of memory, and I want to say that’s okay, because I don’t want you to worry about me because you do, I know you do, because I don’t live like you. But I worry myself, too. Or I used to. I mean, it’s new this living in the inside of my brain not transmuted, not interpreted thru the veil of survival which is too much to explain but it’s all here in some form or another, just needs a massive re-write I am not up to and g-damnit I never say that, but I am so pissed off at the fact that it doesn’t fucking matter if you’re good at what you do, work harder than anyone else and consistently deliver the highest quality product. Crazy, right? Sounds like a joke? Or sour graps? Nah. True story. Confederacy of Dunces, the trilogy. Idiots Rule, forever. Whatever Voltaire said about how stupid we are. Not even Plato can compare. When it comes to putting us down.

But I live, I think so anyway, if this thing I am doing is called living, I would like to consider other verbs for when you pass into another dimension of carefree existence but aren’t dead yet–the petit morte or orgasm as the French call them and why it suddenly switched to italics is beyond me except I typed some key too fast but I am refusing to backspace as I am trying to come to some conclusion here and it is that I have a heavy dose of dread mixed with existential angst because my current situation is anything but what I want or wanted it to be (in terms of Tony Robbins’ goal structure).

and yet here i am

and there went the italics


12:39 pm I meant to only look for sublets but instead i spent 3 hours researching mobile broadband options and RVs.

Not as planned. Exactly. However, today, progress was made. And then a few setbacks, and the usual, okay then, I am going to take a nap. This time though–heat stroke. Too old for that. Feeling vulnerable. Lost my doctor and my father in the same person.

Wish me luck.

I love you all.

You’d be surprised how forgiving I can be and how much I believe in compassion.