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It Won't Be Here
Oct. 14th, 2016 10:58 amMaybe they’ll get me and maybe they won’t
But not tonight and it won’t be here…
Thrilled, thrilled, thrilled that Bob Dylan won the Nobel Prize for Literature.
I desperately want to make a pilgrimage to that house in West Saugerties where most of the songs on Music From Big Pink were written.
Just about everything else in the public arena is filling me with profound nausea.
I do not want to hear one more thing ever about Donald Trump! As usual, Michelle Obama gave a stunningly good speech denouncing him, but truth be told, I don’t want to hear Michelle Obama ever again either! I want government to go back to being some ectoplasmic infrastructure that takes place 1,200 feet or so feet above my head and wafts down upon me, sometimes as ash, sometimes as rain, sometimes as frozen bits of dead meteors.
I am just really fucking sick of it.
###
I did phonebank for Terry Gipson yesterday. Gipson’s a good guy; I talked to him for half an hour or so at one of Seraphina’s Breaking Barriers expos. He’s trying to retake the 41st Assembly District. In 2012, he became the first Democrat since FDR to take that district; he lost in 2014 to the creepy and malevolent Sue Serrino.
I have no idea what political operative first thought it would be a good idea to call people up and interrupt their dinner with sprightly conversation about a political candidate they may never have heard of.
Personally, I never answer the phone unless I recognize the number of the person who’s calling.
I am not sure I managed to enlist a single voter for The Cause. And I am very good at making sprightly conversation.
But, you know. I was flying the flag.
Before I did my bit for the Greater Good, I'd decided I would try to go running at Locust Grove, the old Samuel F.B. Morse estate.
It was gorgeous, and there was a trail going down to the river. But I couldn’t figure out how to get to the trail.
It strikes me that that could be a metaphor for my life. RIP Patrizia: It Won't Be Here.
This, by the way, is not the trail:
But not tonight and it won’t be here…
Thrilled, thrilled, thrilled that Bob Dylan won the Nobel Prize for Literature.
I desperately want to make a pilgrimage to that house in West Saugerties where most of the songs on Music From Big Pink were written.
Just about everything else in the public arena is filling me with profound nausea.
I do not want to hear one more thing ever about Donald Trump! As usual, Michelle Obama gave a stunningly good speech denouncing him, but truth be told, I don’t want to hear Michelle Obama ever again either! I want government to go back to being some ectoplasmic infrastructure that takes place 1,200 feet or so feet above my head and wafts down upon me, sometimes as ash, sometimes as rain, sometimes as frozen bits of dead meteors.
I am just really fucking sick of it.
###
I did phonebank for Terry Gipson yesterday. Gipson’s a good guy; I talked to him for half an hour or so at one of Seraphina’s Breaking Barriers expos. He’s trying to retake the 41st Assembly District. In 2012, he became the first Democrat since FDR to take that district; he lost in 2014 to the creepy and malevolent Sue Serrino.
I have no idea what political operative first thought it would be a good idea to call people up and interrupt their dinner with sprightly conversation about a political candidate they may never have heard of.
Personally, I never answer the phone unless I recognize the number of the person who’s calling.
I am not sure I managed to enlist a single voter for The Cause. And I am very good at making sprightly conversation.
But, you know. I was flying the flag.
Before I did my bit for the Greater Good, I'd decided I would try to go running at Locust Grove, the old Samuel F.B. Morse estate.
It was gorgeous, and there was a trail going down to the river. But I couldn’t figure out how to get to the trail.
It strikes me that that could be a metaphor for my life. RIP Patrizia: It Won't Be Here.
This, by the way, is not the trail:
