3.27.2011

Let Me Eat Cake

No longer is it possible in any wise to pretend that I am any younger than thirty-three years old. Evidently, the big dumb sun has anchored imbecile earth to spin round it yet again. But it’s not bad, yet, because I have yet to awaken as a thirty-three-year-old person, kvetching to determine what havoc the Birthday Surgeon’s wrought to commemorate this latest, otherwise-perfunctory, celestial orbit-function apparatus event.

But I’m messing around, just to be that way, and I am so very grateful for my life. It’s never easy to be a self, but I have loved being this self, and the other selves that I have encountered have all been fantastic, even if it’s a stretch to say such sweeping things. Before offering six (6) poems (of varying age) to you, I’ll leave you with the blanking conclusion of what has become a soup├žon saga of Molly Fitzgerald (my sweetheart) and her wallet.

We conducted exhaustive investigations, throughout yesterday and today, in search of Molly’s walletcontaining, as it did, our debit card and our EBT card (state help for food, because we’ve been paupers)without any avail or indication thereof. Molly had also undertaken the onerous mission of casing the enterprises that she’d visited the day before (the hardware store and the library), leaving contact information at both places. It was a grim feeling, contending with the practical implications of this misplacement. The fact that the wallet itself contained no contact information made a doubly daunting concern of its vanishing.

Early on Saturday afternoon, Molly received a telephone call. A passerby had spotted a wallet lying by the side of the street, near to a convenience store that we typically avoid. This person happened to work at the library, and she brought the wallet back with her, presumably to keep it safely there. In doing so, she saw a note indicating that Molly had come by looking for her wallet. She called the telephone number that Molly had left for the library staff, and voila! 


Nothing had been taken, a sense of stability was restored, and we pondered the sheer improbability that something like this would happen. When being alive means that possibilities exist for such improbable things, I am particularly happy to be a participant.

Now, some poems.

[psyche]

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