I am considering not expiring of impotent rage but enacting this involves voluntarily going out when the rain is occasionally coming down sideways. Will it be invigorating?
Comes the voice, dripping with scorn, of John… “I won’t dignify that with an answer.”
Aware. It’s hard to find the holy in the hellfire. Moloch’s marching up with thousands of human servants and my terror is a place I try to stuff into a reasonable sized compartment. Now I understand why apocalyptic stuff is so figurative, how do you describe a transition zone of culture when shit just quits working and even the rich (rarely, especially the rich) are having a tough time.
Sometimes I think about ideas and governance and self governance and (my always favourite) moderated delegated consensus across people’s aspirations, needs and capacities. I think I’m minutes from a breakthrough. Now that’s what I call gullibility. It is, and always has been, a feature, a very distinct feature, of my autistic nature.
Will I stop being such a feckin’ nervous Nellie? Of course in our family Nellies weren’t nervous.
I send hogs and kisses to my pOp, because he’s feeling porely, although well enough to comment on his own behalf (usually relayed through mOm on the phone). If he’s in the room he’s in on the conversation. I always enjoy mOm passing along the message because either she’s trying to truncate the message to meet pOp’s stringent requirements with respect to What is Germane? or she’s trying to get the quote exactly right, and either way, for unintentional comic effect it’s an experience with few peers. Okay without the sevenhundred thousand injokes it might not be the same experience for you. But for me and mOm and pOp it’s about as much of a communal experience as you get these days. But this isn’t the phone, so Hogs and Kisses pOp.