Thursday, October 09, 2008
Lost my blog. Lost my mind. Here it comes from swiss-cheese memory.
I think it's the way I type.
Hit the wrong key and lost the entire blog. Not only that, but my compute has crashed.
So here is all you get, from memory, and I can hardly stomach the drivel myself. Not time to edit. I am frustrated annoyed and now thirsty. Don't you hate it when you get that way?
What I remember of the blog:
I thought I would be a fancier of cheese, that is to say, sort of crafty. I have lost alll my photo images from my file, but it seems that some of the gif numbers can still be accessed. Where there might be numbers there might still be pictures? Just as I get this flash, my computer crashes. Well, one has to stay uh, Krafty.
I would now have to go to the library, try to remember the image I wanted through my recollection of the gif numbers on my picture file; I would remember the image I wanted up on this blog and then go to the library computer and put it up on blog....Yeah, yeah. You are probably wondering how it is that I think. I used to have something like a phtographic memory, but after a bout of hippiedom, it's sort of like Cheech and Chong's "Daves not home."
So I am a space cowboy, imageless in Gaza, very nearly a blogless serf. Oh. Whoops. Here comes something. It's Cleopatra. Well, what the hell. I'll take the image. Any image. What can you do?
"What can you do when you live in a shoe?" I ask my friend the drug dealer.
"Button it up and get laced," he says.
"Goddamn jailbird. No-account. Ne'er do well!"
"Yeah, but didn't I meet you at the halfway house?" he laughed.
Oh what the hell. I am a novelist. Well, at least a novelist-manque'. Wannabee- had- to- be. Looking up at the stars. Falling into wells and cesspits. And halfway houses.
Among the filthy, filthy too.
My intention in life was to have been lucky and wonderful.
The way it turned out, I was Ethelred the Unready,one of the dumbest kings of England.
Ah well. My pretentions to royalty had to be scaled down.
Perhaps I could be a writer of doggerel.
"He was dirty and lousy, and full of fleas
"But he had his women by twos and threes
"God bless the bastard king of En-gel-and."
Well the dirty and lousy and full of fleas part is true right now. Something is seriously eaing away at me, probably because they have turned off the water in my builking for two days becaue of a boiler blow-up.
I think I have blown my own stack.
I swear Microsoft is designed to make you go mad. Or maybe take the next step and buy a Mac.
...It's all done with economic mirrors, it seems and not windows.
"You got your health," says my former dentis friend.
Yeah? And where are my teeth?
Usually, when my professional friends say "You got your health", you are fubar, beyond help.
Actually, at the time, I was free, white and 51, no spring chicken.
And a nightclub singer to largely black audiences.
"Play that funky music, white boy." Had everything but melanin. "Rock star with frequent trips to the washroom, as is the way of seniors. Lol.
We go through life in a dream, like automatons, somewhow. The talent seems to come from way out there somewhere. All things come from God. First tenet of the Kaballah; no wonder Madonna is so enamored with it.
Yeah, but Madonna's got talent.
Well, anyway, here am I peacfully ratscrabbing away in the library.
"Can I have more computer time?"
"You'll have to show me your library card."
"But I've got enough notoriety not to need one...Like the lady at the opera said, 'I have a special box.'"
"What was that?"
"Nothing, nothing. I just thought I had enough notoriety not to need a lirary card."
"You've got the notoriety, all right. Now show me your library card."
I have a friend whose credit rating and personal reputation is so bad that he had to go to a lawyer to get back his library card...Now that's a persona non grata. Needed a lawyer. I'd hate to look up his credit rating.
There was a time when I'd walk into a library and everybody would almost salute.
I was published all over.
Nowadays, it's more like Tom Swift and his electric vibrator... Yeah. I go out with the stragest women..
Nowadays more like Alexander Pornoy.
And in some sort of time warp.
I am back in a l938 world of Tom Swift and his Silent Airplane.
Silent all right. Haven't published a thing in years, save maybe for some journalism.
The librarian knows I have acquired the look of a loser.
"Are you sure you have a library card, or something with your name on it?"
So I gave the librarian my Air Miles card. Then my receipt for somethin nasty and off-colour from Wal-Mart. "No. try again."
I fumble and find only a rejection slip from House of Anansi Press.
I have obviously lost the culture derby. Now comes the short-hair count.
An envelope with your name on it?"
Well, the rejection letter was sent to my address.
And I did have an expired driver's licence.
Cop told me to renew it. Told cop I didn't have the eighty bucks.
"These things are sent to try us," said P.C. Murphy, and let me drive on, since there were no demerit poins on his file, where the licence showed clear on the computer.
Lately, I have been fancying myself as Irish, since they are so much like me. A little spacey, and tending to drink.
The librarian finally issued me a card.
"You're losing your poetic licence, " she winked.