Monday, October 29, 2018


A Page of Thoughts

These (which, my handwriting
was never the best, but is a word
here that looks more like “the hex” — 
which I love — but these
days I’ve become the cliché
who can all-too-often barely
read his own handwriting; so 
transcribing from paper to
perhaps another draft on paper
[drafts??] before time at the com-
puter to input, type, the part that
seems the most endless of all,
probably because of the limited
timeframes which I’m allowed to
sit at a computer.  And so. I truly
never edited for any considerable 
length of time, but my situation 
over the past few years seems 
to have greatly increased my 
editing time and process 
[process?], while at the 
same time, thanks especially, 
I am certain, to my transience, 
connected also to my lack of
ownership, of a laptop or a 
desktop [one without time
limits which have me hop-
ping from library to library, 
etc.] or even a decent cell-
phone….   AND [alas!]
there is the problem of 
nowhere mine to go, no-
where mine to sit.)  Blame, 
blame, blame.   I do a lot of 
blaming.  I know.  A lot.  People 
tell me all the time. Perfect 
strangers.  Today it is just to say
that maybe we are too complex.
For blame.  Or remembering your
name. I know.  It's me.  I do, i swear,
spend much private time “owning up” — 
but I take a stand in making certain to 
publicly act on attempts to know when
NOT to blame myself, and when to
firmly stick to understanding when 
(don't laugh!) I am the victim.  Know 
when to kowtow.  Know when to bow out. 
Or when to just bone up.  Ow!  Just shut up 
about it all.  You are hurting my head
on a regular but limited
basis. Many people, perhaps 
like you, seem very uncom-
fortable with that.  But that’s
a horror story and not a thought. 
"Let’s have coffee and talk about 
this sometime.”  With all of the
seriousness in the world, that
request.  Because this one is short…  
[Or so I thought when I first drafted it.…
and yet:])….
The hex, or these things, while
often wonderful, fun, innocuous, 
interesting, odd, not always too 
overly dramatic or logical, graph-
ic, sinister without the cynicism,
or, no, I mean the other way
around. I think. Of me.  Occasion-
ally (I mean who else?) I am a good 
person. I mean I am good, right?  
So genuine, so full of crap, without
suffering from the worry
of being too Gemini (a gleefully
sincere lie!). I work hard. Also to
strive for good, to comprehend 
what that might mean and why it
might or might not be meaningful.
Air quotes make us similar. Many
things make us forget, grow dist- 
ant, relax into that conundrum
like an oxymoron, fall apart. I
fall to pieces. Trying to fix things
shows our simplicity, our com-
plexity, the spectacular spectrum
of our complexions, the horrible sense
of if all. The horrible sensations. The luxury 
of baggage. I’m falling into my fading “I’m 
right and you aren't” mentality (empathy being 
the line that separates adulthood and child-
hood — sadly, most seem never to 
find their hidden grown-up.  And it has 
to be driven attempts, done on regular bases, 
at “being as” else.  Someone who, preferably,
holds values quite independent from those 
of your own (Do you have one? Allow me to
check.), if not at complete odds with it.  Shut 
up! At least on the surface.  We can go now. 
Going is growing. You go first. What’s your
cuppa?  I am culpable too, sometimes.
Just like you are.  Just like Robert Culp is.