Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.Kurt Vonnegut
Life would be tragic if it weren’t funny.Stephen Hawking
I’d like to thank some stars who popped in on my life for existing and also for exiting with containment commentary on how cutting or scornful I am. Thought about that and how ugly sarcasm must seem to the Lord’s purer children. How cynicism must smack the holy look off a sinner-turned-saint’s face. Hail Mary and Namastain.
But wait, isn’t this world choking at the brim with paradox and hypocrisy? Don’t purer people show their shock of a thing that undermines them in some way? Their tribe values or their group morals or their own voice? Could this form of criticism be specific to these shiny stars? I thought about how Oscar Wilde boldly wrote out of this absurd world. Cracked some books and realized he might be a twink less vicious than I have been but then that’s apple trifles to tangerine dreams for the Victorian era. A look at modern writers suggests that I could actually stand to open the control valve. The best part of this query was discovering Christopher Moore whose excerpts brought me some much-needed laughter. Looking forward to Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal arriving in the mail.
I was approaching misery before starting our AES section. Audio dudes just don’t talk to women and I’m almost 30 years into the field. I handle gaslight well by now and can remove a few heads to get to the subliminal message in the Russian Doll of it all. But getting to the international arena gave me access to many brilliant thinkers in my field and now I can easily choose stimulating conversation over apathy or criticism from people who just like it simple. I just need to find a pinch of that with a small writing circle. I really like some of the poets on Twitter but what I really want, from within my tank, is to finish a book I’ve worked on then put down then worked on then abandoned for the chance to work with people. Finding a writer or two for mutual support is challenging to do while barely leaving the house. And there are potential pitfalls it turns out like synchronic loops of suffering that start with feeling understood but can end with feeling estranged and alienated until your shadow returns to harvest a clearing. As if life weren’t absurd enough to begin with. I hibernate, mull, thaw, get up, then fight and reason for the energy to dig in anyway so some other surreptitious blamer can ready the rug to pull out from under my summoned enthusiasm. Meanwhile there is still more than enough in the social environment to shake a fist at. Absurdity driven by one materialistic branch or another.
I recently ran into an old acquaintance who said I forgot about your ridiculous sense of humor and I miss it so much. Reread that with a British accent, please. I wanted to reply I forgot about your awkward interjaculatory narration of the actual conversation we are having and I miss it more than Poppycock.
There’s a bit more to that story and my thought reaction that I won’t get into but what scares me is that I may get to the point of reacting out loud to subtext. It’s all absurd, you’re all absurd, and I am absurd. I have just the character for heroically summarizing this sensation:
Let’s go do my thing and hang out. Sound good? I happen to know a good therapist who lives out by Mirror Lake. Let us flit there on my whimsicle. You can sit in back and steer, but I get to ring the bell. Ding!
It’s such a lively day that even the trip to see Amus Thal will lift your spirit. Spirit, do you need a lift or will you meet us there? Let’s take the scenic route and plus I want to avoid that mucky slump where the land plot twists. It may be a faster route but you gunk up your tires and the whimsicle becomes heavy. By the time you ride back through, more guck cakes on the old muck and compounds the problem. Then by Cross Leg Rd, you’re basically hydroplaning downhill and missing the best part of the trip.for Amus Thal