Category: Stupidities

I know. It’s terrible. It’s the scourge of the starving class.  Of the leisured class, working class, grocery cart class. It rides with those other gallivanting mysterions of the apocalypse boredom, indifference and the fine old wine of ennui.  It’s motto is in English.  Do Nothing.  Who cares?  Why bother?  It’s awful.  I hope you don’t catch it from me.

I try to keep myself interested by fantasizing about doing something.  You know.  Taking action.  Jumping up and getting on with it.  But that doesn’t even always work.  Thinking itself can be a bore.  Sometimes you just want to be an inert lump of goo because it’s all just too much.  Everything.  It’s impossible to conceive of the gargantuan effort it must have taken to get this far.  You must have made it because you’re here. But you’re certainly not interested in doing anything further.  No way!  Forget it!

Apathy’s so predictable.  You know it can’t last forever but you can hope.  But hope isn’t quite the right word because that itself would take some effort and that’s the last thing you want.  And it’s not like you might as well be dead because then you’d have no appreciation for the apathy that has you in its grip right now, as you live.  You can appreciate something without making any effort at all, so that’s no problem.

The question remains what is the way forward?  Or it could be if I wasn’t too lazy to ask it.  Nice try.  We’re not falling for that one.  I’m not budging until I know what’s going on here.

Talk to you soon.  Nudge me if I nod off.

How do I get onto the world stage?  This was on my mind.  I opened the envelope and saw it’s just another cancellation notice.  Dead air.  I thought maybe this one might be different.  I had expectations.  I remained optimistic.

What does it take to send someone over the edge?  I don’t know.  Let’s try it.  Let’s see if this dog can fly.  We do this even though we already know the answer.  Of course not.  It’s not a real dog.  It’s Pluto, the pajama bag dog.  I wish my pajama bag dog was still around.

I sure could use a hundred grand. You’ve got A and lots of B but you can’t quite find the rest of C.  Therefore, in this world, there’s no hope of getting to the big prize.  And you do. You wonder.  Nobody wonders why anymore.  The answer’s in the question.

Why anything?  Why?  Easy.  You didn’t win.  You weren’t even in the running.  You shake your head and what are you doing?  Shake shake.  That something positive might come of such pain and suffering.  The cost.  Thing’s going up.  It’s tragic.  And it doesn’t matter now.  But that isn’t really true.

There’s something you don’t understand.  Of course there is.  “Records” are making a comeback.  Reborn hard you might even say.  I couldn’t believe the crowd.  I couldn’t get near the platters.  There are a heck of a lot of fine humans of all ages really, really interested in the possibilities of 33 and a 3rd.

I was, or I mean, or I should expect to say, awesome.  But I’m not going to do that.  The incredibly surprising thing is I find the vinyl album I’ve been looking for.  And that search had gone on.

So it was a lesson.  Something goes right for a change.  Don’t give up.  Keep going.  It can still happen.  Especially true.  I was on my way out with a worthy substitute but saw this side table and a couple of old milk crates, bless them, full of albums.

I flick the first one back, as in the time-honoured custom, so much in evidence this fine afternoon, flicking through the albums, and here she is.  $10 by donation.  CITR.  Exultant.

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