mmdccc

A Page of Thoughts

My handwriting was never the best, 

but it gets worse and worse.  Here,

a word looks like “hex” — which I love — 

but not being the cliché who can 

all-too-often barely read his own 

handwriting, today editing hand

written drafts.  I’m allowed to
sit at a computer.  And so.  And I 

never used to edit 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 has me hop-
ping from library to library,
etc.] or even a decent cell-
phone…. AND there’s 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 this all the time.  Perfect
strangers.  Today I say that maybe 

we’re too complex for blame.  Or of 

remembering our own names. 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’re hurting my head

on a regular but limited basis!  “Hey, let’s 

have coffee and talk about

this sometime.”  With all of the
seriousness in the world, that
request. Anyway...
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’m 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 striving
for good, trying to comprehend
what that might mean and why it
might or might not be meaningful.
Many things help us forget and grow 

distant, relax into that conundrum
like an oxymoron, fall apart.  I
fall to pieces, trying to fix things.
This shows my simplicity, my com-
plexity, the spectacular spectrum
of my complexion, 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 make it
over that hurdle).  These have 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 even one?  Allow me 

to check.), if not at complete odds with them.  You go first. 

What’s your cuppa regarding my culpability.  Sometimes 
I am.  Just like you are.  Just like Robert Culp is.