old old old

finding so many things to say and think and do, where’s the harm, the arm
in it all, egyptian doomuggims, nile, but someone’s obsessed with it. can’t
say who, wouldn’t be, apropospos. here here, the noodlemen cry, and the
daisychainmen, linked arms and everything, slice the air with their curling
fandangos, bright red fedoras, gurgling aspersions to grandeur. but why,
why don’t we ever really understand what haven’t seen? or rather, when the
nail comes home to roost, why don’t we sing with the sopranos till the moose
come home? I’ve read a book or two in my day and I have to wonder what the
fuss is about. To be sure, I can’t say that it’s always been easy, it’s
been quite difficult from time to time to time. And the roses blooom on sundays
and wilt by teatime. that’s just how it is, sometimes, rather, often. Higgledy
piggledy, but I’ve been dreaming some stark despondent dreams, what’s the
matter? I ask myself, ‘pon waking, but I can’t/won’t tell myself. Because
I’m just rather ornery, or say rather, contrary. I’ve planted MY cockleshells
all in a row and the house burned down… What’s it like to creep around
the house like a mouse? It’s lonely, is what it is, and to indulge in fanciful
discussions about nobbits and widgets and textual inerrencies… Please forget
everything I’ve said, except for the bits which are important, which I want
you to remember. Call it blundago. Or, as I always used to say, before the
operation deprived me of a great many things, the operation operated by those
white clad fellows/things in rubber gloves and horseshoes, they liked to
clash profoundly over which bit of me to remove next, which little piece
of me was completely unnecessary to the functionability of the whole. Rather.
There’s not much left, now they’re done…