||[Dec. 24th, 2018|01:00 am]
Must get a proper computer.I missed Sunday. This is because I got hung up doing stuff. In fact one of the things I got hung up doing is that I finally got the mobile phone set up as a hotspot, and can now use the wonky laptop instead of the tiny phone itself to get on the Internets. After using the laptop for a few minutes I already miss the phone with its tiny virtual keyboard. |
There was also vodka involved, which may (aka certainly does) account for why I'm up this late writing Sunday's entry on Monday. After the last few weeks I think I deserve a good sousing. One of many things I probably deserve, but the one that's easiest to get, so... sue me? Something like that. The vodka is being particularly effective due to the fact that I had noting but a couple of pieces of toast with cream cheese for dinner. The toaster works! Yay!
But being shitfaced (I believe that's what it's called) tonight is unlikely to make tomorrow any easier. My guess would be that I'll wake up late and have a hangover. In fact I might not get to sleep very soon if the room is spinning around. I hate when the room spins around, which is one reason I don't drink to excess very often. I don't drink to excess very often, but when I do I prefer to drink to way excess.
Crap, this is getting me nowhere, and spellcheck is getting pissed off at me, underlining practically everything I write in lurid red.
I part the blinds to look out at the streetlights in the cul-de-sac, glowing though a thin valley fog and reflecting in the wet asphalt. The windows of all but one apartment in the block at the end of the street are dark. I know nobody there. I know nobody here. The moon alternates between pale orb and vague bright spot in the overcast sky. The neighbors with whom I share a common wall are silent. The fog has tempered the sound of cars passing along the freeway. The world seems not quite empty, not quite inhabited. How strange that it should come to this. What will it come to next? I'm not sure I want to know.
Sunday (Early Monday) Verse
by Harvey Shapiro
Drunk and weeping. It’s another night
at the live-in opera, and I figure
it’s going to turn out badly for me.
The dead next door accept their salutations,
their salted notes, the drawn-out wailing.
It’s we the living who must run for cover,
meaning me. Mortality’s the ABC of it,
and after that comes lechery and lying.
And, oh, how to piece together a life
from this scandal and confusion, as if
the gods were inhabiting us or cohabiting
with us, just for the music’s sake.