Bull's Blood

My oh my. It's enervating and depressing editing the particularly nasty bits of your life. Most certainly, I'd put up with a lot of pain to have these lousy pieces extricated from my memory. But no such luck. I'm editing them with this goddamned keyboard. For Since When. Instead of pushing these precious moments (or better yet, specious moments) to the back recesses of my mind where they fucking belong, I'm as close to reliving them without actually being there. That, my lovelies, deserves a big, whopping "Woohoo."

I've had a sobering week. I want to revert to my innate Hungarianess and get drunk on Egri Bikever- "Bull's Blood," listen to Romany music and cry my little eyes out 'til sunup. Now that would fall under the rubric, "fantastic day." It could only get better if my aunt Gaetane and grandmother were here to join me. Since, they aren't, I suppose it just means I need to cry harder and longer. But every week for me is a sobering week. I live my illness 24/7. I don't need the tubing to remind me. And no more Egri Bikever forever. Unless medicine stumbles on an alveoli miracle. That's reason enough to cry.

I'm a broken record aren't I? I should be better about reading the newspaper, and discuss with you all the issues of the day. And that there are plenty. I suppose that I am now eligible for Medicare isn't one of them. Or that I am on permanent disability. Nor is the concern that I"m writing posts to the ether.

That actually doesn't matter an iota to me. If I were told this were true, I'd keep writing. Why? Why the hell not? I'll just assume that my not so pithy little ramblings are scintillating and satisfying to the reader. Even if that reader is I. The next Tolstoy. He repeated himself an awful lot. It goes to show you how easy it is to convince yourself of anything.

I have to admit it is difficult to get excited about the news of the day. Everything sucks. We're making our oceans into one enormous burial at sea. I caught the end of Hitchcock's The Birds a week or so ago. For me it is one of the most frightening movies of all time. Who knows? Maybe this time we won't be dealing with Hollywood actor birds. We'll have the real deal. They've had fucking enough and are rallying for the big "Peck Down." We sure as hell deserve it. I wouldn't blame them. Especially after this oil "spill." A spill you can pick up with Bounty. This isn't a spill, it's ever-growing, ever-morphing oil deluge.

We've just have to be fucked this time, right? (I' m sort of excited about that prospect. How is it going to happen? Will it be biblical? You, Jews, down there as Mengele (his second coming) points and kicks us all down into the bowels of hell.) Or will we just poison ourselves and everything around us to death. (Oh goody, like one of my other scariest movies of all times: On the Beach.) For whatever reason, On the Beach has become a sort of touchstone in my life. I think that says more about loonytunes me than my actual life which was pretty damned normal. It had it's unpleasantnesses, but hasn't everybody's?

I've always been everyone's favorite cynic. (At least I like to think that's so. but as my darling Suzanne used to say, "Whaddya want? A prize?" Words to live and die by.) I'm lots of fun, but this is the only playground that will let me in. Boy, I'd really like that glass of Bull's Blood right about now.