mmdxlviii

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 whose...presents...is a joy

to be around.  Do I strive for this?

Is this just it?  Or is it just me?  
(Or 

is it I?)

                                        Well,

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.