Sunday, March 20, 2016


A Cavalcade of Paroxysms

Wending therapy session because I
talk entirely too much (clearly)   vs.

not remembering optimistic follow-up.
Nor being in Cleveland.   (At all!)    But

remembering instead not even being
diagnosed (with Tourette’s Syndrome,

“...usually diagnosed in childhood or
adolescence.”).  Which is still not

remembering.  But it makes me
everybody’s favorite type of

hypochondriac: the guy who
makes fun of the fact that he’s

a hypochondriac.  “Favorite”
is relative, however, and “fun”

isn’t the problem, unfortunately.
Because I’m a fun-loving guy

in a joy
to be around.  Do I strive for this?

Is this just it?  Or is it just me?  

is it I?)

I used to be a hypochondriac.  And not
a favorite.  But it was, of course,

something to bring up when conversations
hit dead silence (not by me, of course, but

in general—or by the General, if he were in
attendance, as if it were.  He’d always frighten

the soldier-children as if on cue.  And whether
the horror was cue or cure for the erstwhile

death and silence, or even for the eye-rolling,
nobody seemed the worse for it, that’s for certain.

Perhaps that’s why I’m more summed an idealist
an all-the-way-back-it’s-just-the-whites-of-the-

eyes romantic [cough, cough!]....    Will it is or
will it ain’t, I grin, realizing again that thoughts

about myself often bring me to subjects such as
Hope and The Wondrous Beauty of Silence