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In This Flesh
I walk around in this flesh, dying each day, containing bowels and brains, maggots and bacteria, sweaty pores and rectal exits and bypasses, behaving as if I know what I am about. It is a horrific joke, quite trying, to realize that not much is accomplished each day and what is accomplished is defined by the apparatchik of society, the molecular bullshit that drives each culture and conditions all of us. A truly free man might commit suicide, so bereft by his isolation, so apart from his kind. Someone once said that a good psychotherapist is not a little naive,…
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Out Of Sorts: A Short Lemmonade Today
I’m feeling out of sorts, depressed, angry and hostile, pissed and peeved, fed-up, annoyed and aggravated. I don’t suffer fools, but then there are so many, I allow a few to enter. As I age I see that I am more intolerant of foibles, less empathetic, irritable, impatient, anxious that I can’t have my own way, bristlng and surly. I imagine parts of me are calcifying, shutting down, as characterological values are becoming arthritic. The inner rigidities I have borne all my life are as dorsal finned as any hidebound stegosaurus. I don’t want to stop this ever hardening of cranky…