Blind Spot

I need a research assistant. And a yard guy. Typical late summer mess, the yard overgrown, books piled everywhere, the outhouse needs mucking. Computer needs an ice-pack today, 95 degrees, 90% humidity, considered going in and reading at the museum library, what with the AC and a fridge full of beer. Nixed the idea, as D would find me sleeping on the floor, though my image could hardly be more tarnished. Last night, did I write a second time? Can't remember, really must get a new printer, I feel out of touch with myself. I do remember getting up, a great blues run on NPR, Michael Burke, lord have mercy: an out of body experience. Maybe a flashback, whatever. Didn't catch the title of the number, but it was long, 10 minutes, maybe, incredible, blues-rock. Leif (the Norwegian Finish Carpenter) would dismiss it as noodling but it caught my attention. Caveman logic and there is no accounting for taste. I listen to Bach, usually, occasionally Berlioz, but I do like extended jams. Like long poems, they build meaning. Always liked long poems too, though I heard vintage Robert Bly on the radio today, and fell in love with short poems again. I'm a fool for love. A wealth of insights and not quite enough money to put a roof on the back porch. Practicing liberation biology without a text, a naked relic of Eden. Once you taste that forbidden fruit, you get a serious jones. Passion brands us, we become what we do, certain considerations can be drawn, the coffee talk of gifted hands; what you do is put your feet in the fire, to get motivated, then hop about, like Mister Crow, and squawk your discomfort. It's the American way. I'm not even cynical and the field looks bleak. I worry more about my driveway than I do the Middle East. The joy of chemistry has pulled me through, time after time. I suggest you consider your quantum legacy. I'm shooting for a zero-sum thing, where I come out even. Reality check, when's the last time you helped a lady across the street? Abnormal pap smears are a pain, like incipient hernias, those various cancers, you get sick, then you die. The secular conscience affirms life as it happens; what might be considered the Humanist Manifesto, you till your plot. It's a metaphor but it seems to cover the situation. Nothing prepares you. What's that all about? You're less than a piss-ant and no one ever tells you. Nothing, then forced into a kind of faith, maybe a bad faith, but who's to be the judge?. I can't explain it but feel violated. Bad faith is an awful condition, first thing you know, you're looking at thunder clouds. Degree Mills. I can't see you anymore, you're a blur. The nature of reality is that it fails.