Secret Wishes

I communicate well with a wide spectrum of people. It's a talent. Bullshit, for the most part, but there is, embedded, a kernel of actual communication. Something. An interface. Language moves too fast for me, I'm several generations behind. I still spilt shingles with a froe. Not a question of right or wrong, but the way you learned to do a particular thing. I think about this a lot, being an autodidact and so rudely informed about so many things. I could make a list. I might do more things badly than anyone in the universe, I might well hold the record. The museum was closed today, no one could get to work, but I was there, so I fielded phone-calls. I made stuff up, and gave incorrect directions. This is a game I play, there are very few instructions, you roll dice and move a piece. Almost everything is a red herring. Talked with the bar-maid Libby, about playing fast-pitch softball. I love this game. I've learned to stop, on any Friday evening, wherever I find myself, Peoria, and watch a game. Buy a hot-dog, be a fan. What we were talking about. I forget so much, what I remember is interesting because I remember it. There a new book of 49 Emily poems, with illustrations by some graphic guy I'm supposed to know. Good to go, but I don't know him, and don't give a shit. because I know the poems. What other agent could you possibly bring in, a ringer, who would possibly meet your criteria. I was going to say maybe the bar was set too high, but I don't believe that, what we all really crave is to be engaged. I read Hannah and those fucking Germans. Critical Theory and everyday thought aren't that far apart. I call up my muse. I have her on speed-dial. I amuse myself mostly. Whatever else goes on. Assume you were me. What would you do?