I am exhausted. A sleepy man. Take it, Miss LuPone.
I haven’t much to say today (which rarely stops me) but the usual assertive fecundity of my infinite polemic has, perhaps, exhausted me. So no dyspeptic theories and attestations about why adhering to my sell-by date is, in fact, the only sensible course of action, nor vague allegations painted in haunting descant about those experiences to which I have been subjected.
I am far too weary. I did not make it to my bed until after five a.m. and was wakened at six-thirty by a voice; someone was calling my name. So vital, so real, so solid was this needy, warning beckoning that I rose from bed, answering, “Yes? I’m coming. Hold on.” I quickly threw on clothes, dashed down the steps and looked around for the next door neighbor who I was certain had come to waken me for some or another emergency.
No one there. So, now, yes, I am hearing voices.
I went out to dinner last night with a friend. We talked about the pointlessness of all (most) things and she wondered what might happen, what could happen that might make me change my mind. I could think of nothing. She said, “You’ve been through a lot of awful, it’s true.” Have I? I think so. But who hasn’t?
It isn’t the awful that bothers me. It’s the mumbo-jumbo, idiot-logical content of our days and lives. All palaver. No point. Delusional distractions from the bottom line – there is no THERE there. But there I go, dyspeptic descant-ing again.
No. Not today. Today I amuse myself with this, the publication of “The Erotic Lives of the Superheroes”. Yes, I must have this. And not just because it sounds something like me, this take on the Dark Knight; listen:
“Batman has always had a very dark side. And it shouldn’t be a shock that my version of this character indulges in weird forms of fetishism and extreme sex…Narcissism is his inner abyss. He let his only real love story miserably fail because he is in love with the mystery of youth – that inaccessible, fleeting kind of spirit that he sees in the eyes of his young male and female pick-ups.”
Interesting, yes? I’ve already ordered it from Amazon.
And now, I’m going . . . not here . . . pretending I am the kind of person about whom Patti LuPone (or anyone) would sing. Goodbye.