Not ‘65

I become a senior in a few minutes. Took a long time. But it went quickly.

My birthday is the anniversary of Letelier’s assassination, his car bomb. The actual hour of my birth coincided with the heaviest part of the Soviet Red Army’s counterattack near the vital oil distribution point of Stalingrad, Russia, during WWII. Lifeblood little known.

But who cares about world events today? Only four kinds of people or so: junknews Joneses; compassionate socializers, maniacal martyrs, holier than thouers, and the like.

Not a John Brown among them.  Who even knows what about JB? Where are the people who want to know?

I know Marcel and Sylvie well. For now. I’d like to increase that foreshortened circle, but the prospects don’t look good. Deep intellectual curiosity seems to be lacking in others. And on top of that, people seem pressed for time, exhausted and in search of relief, and fearful of change. There is no sense of a community of citizens existing.

And even rape by mild-mannered Noam Chomsky would barely wake 9 out of 10. In this world of Walking Dead With Oozing Sores. Contagious bores, whores.

People speak of fatigue as if that explained anything…satisfactorily.

Some point to the beautiful day. Or invite you to the ballpark for a yell.

Hell, the Swell of Sadness has set in.

And all I can look forward to is that hummingbird darting by, on her way to a better day. And my youngest son reciting lines from Oscar Wilde’s Lady Bracknell. Whilst I keep my eyes open in case I run across Ralph Waldo Emerson, learn from the Unknown.

Oh yes, and lunch. Without half my teeth.

Half-hearted already. Regarding the humans I used to know.

There is no lovely air with which to see, no History, only Biography.

Me, not ‘63.