the great idiot of us all

When I was growing up I was sure of two things. 1. I was retarded and 2. that I was adopted. - eventually I learned that 1. no and 2. no.


however, there is lingering doubt remaining about both only because my nature is different and odd and my nurture is fantastically imprinted.


I was also told that I couldn't carry a tune and was in speech therapy because I was monotone and thought to be tone deaf - both of these ended life being not true as I have become an accomplished musician and a pretty good singer.

If I was so motivated - this would be the start of my autobiography - or my memoirs as they call them.

what follows is probably terrible or terrific...


the great idiot of us all

the rain sleeps;
passed the nickel
through gates of wrath
after
observedly pounded on
windows and
doors and windows
doors and windows.

slept under lit porticoes
and flooded swails.

- last night I wrote this but may take it back

a busy day or at least a busy morning or how I learned to fill out medicare paperwork…

Already having been here for an hour and a half and out of coffee but rich in apple fritter - the radio plays Steve Miller much to a lack of excitement about it from the general crowd gathered in the IV infusion lab at Sherman Hospital.

We started this morning at the wound care clinic and waiting for a surgeon to look at the near 7 cm wound in my MIL's chest.

but for another topic - I have bought a copy of my own book for my wife's first generation Nook - she now has a color Nook and I am borrowing her old one to read Mark Twain's Autobiography as it is a rather large book and difficult to hold while in bed, lying down and preparing for restlessness in the dark. Anyway - I then got an app for my iPhone that makes available my Nook books on my iPhone - the line breaks are not correct on the iPhone and I cannot imagine reading something like a book on the phone that should really be for making phone calls and not playing games, checking e-mail, taking photos and all the other crap one can do with the phone. I wouldn't be surprised if the next iPhone was designed to do everything including talk for you and organize your garage but not make phone calls - and they will change the name to what the device actually is - a handheld personal computer - desktop, laptop and the handheld - next real step is the implant singularity.

I am tangential by nature.

I like being able to carry my book, as in MY book, with me everywhere and have it take up no added room. This is especially handy as I don't memorize my poems and try to forget that I've written most of them - now when someone says - tell me a poem, I can bust out my phone and do just that.

St Sebastian

walked, mid January,
through snowy woods
stepping lightly the tracks
of those travelled before,
leaving some for those behind.

no turns but trees to rest upon
no crickets to sing or call
no voices but those of
my companions
no impressive sigh
but that of our feet
crushing through
and impermanent
            
as I looked further,
down the path
we traveled,
it was Sebastian I thought of
and his arrows.

 - Hoc Scripsi

that is one of the first poems written in this year and I wonder what will be the last completed. I wonder what will be the first of 2012 unless the earth comes to a mind bogglingly spectacular end tomorrow night.

I do not look forward to organizing my paperwork for the tax man/woman/alien.

My MIL sleeps lightly in the barcalounger while being infused - I type and listen to bad radio commercials.

I am informed by bad advertising and pulp and the slush pile which my poetry occupies.

see it was like this when...

There isn't anything better to do in an infusion lab than to surf the internet or sit here and write a blog post. I have had enough of surfing as there are too many waves that crash me and cause undo pressure on my brain - there is only so much I can learn and I prefer everything I learn have to do with my areas of interest - for those I have books and experience, these being the doors of true freedom.

Today my keep of classical music fills the infusion lab - Bach, two part invention BMV 772 no. 1 in C major and soon onto another but for now this is what it is.

I could go walking in the hospital and see how many surgeons are about and engage them in conversation about poetry - philosophy - blood; the typical elements of good conversation. I could go to the cafeteria and indulge in sugary pastries and see how long it takes for me to get ill and shake uncontrollably, I could go bother the security and behave suspiciously - but all of this will only land in different areas of trouble.

For another topic and stop me if you've heard this one... never mind - I think you have.

there isn't any poetry in this post

This is a copy of a post from my word press blog from yesterday.... I'll be trying to post in both places until I bore of it. I will follow this one with my post from today should I find it in need of posting.

Paul Simon is on the radio and was preceded by Buffalo Springfield. Sitting at a hospital and waiting for the IV infusion to complete is not the most interesting thing I’ve planned into my day but it is not the most uninteresting thing either.
Last night while journaling I decided to simply write what ever I heard in my head – it isn’t the first time I’ve done this and I usually only do it every time I forget that there is no narrative to the voices
“I like that old time Rock and Roll” sung without any irony.
or dreams of close eyes just before bed contemplation. Interesting disconnectedness to it. Sometimes flow of consciousness isn’t going to be any good – or sometimes it is good and most of the time it is disjointed and sad.
phil collins now and I think the disc Jockey must be schizophrenic as there is no sense to the selected song list – Elton John earlier.
I’ve never really cared for radio save the classical station – WFMT – of which I am a member and it plays constantly in my car. Radio seems either to play to the vox popoli or a far too specific cast of listeners – as I am not a member of the VP – I am a member of a specific cast of listeners – those who listen to classical and jazz mostly so I don’t get exposed to a lot of current but the current makes me want a whiskey and water.
The patient falls asleep in her barcalounger while hooked into IV antibiotics. a severe lack of anything interesting for me while I have my computer must be mind bogglingly boring for her without any entertainment except for the schizophrenic radio DJ. The radio DJ brags about playing pop, rock and soul and he forgets to mention crap and filler and bad radio commercials.