testing taxing trying


I think that this might actually work, here with Blogger's new compatibility whateverness and such. The erstwhile lack thereof is prompting me to test. (five minutes, maybe six minutes, later) And the preliminary results appear to be satisfactory.


Then there is the business of getting thoughts together. An entirely different kettle of fish, as it were. Which reminds me that my lunch (a twice-baked potato) looks completely inedible, like a still-life painting or those surreal faded-technicolor photos stationed above the backlit menu boards at take-away Asian restaurants. I've begun to eat it, and it tastes edible, but who knows? It could be power of suggestion, as I was paying for food when I purchased it.

I'm still in Vermont, having been felled yestereventide by an utterly lusterless sinus malady that precludes my tasting this twice-baked potato. It hasn't surpassed 10 degrees outside since I got here; yet, I love it. Anyway, I'm going back to Maine in the morning, brightly and earlily. Tonight, however, I'm going to learn how to leverage my once-flawless memory to my advantage by counting cards.

I've never been able to, in my words to often-unsuspecting people, "flush the toilet of my mind." For most of my life, or at least a majority of it, I've been gifted/cursed with near-total recall. Because humans are so fond of, and given to, forgetting when it serves the interest at hand, my memory has been, and become, nettlesome--by turns unruly at functions (like an unstable auntie) and unforgiving to the owner of the skull that houses the brain that stores the information. It's torture, in its way.

When I was 3 years old, I did something that my parents wouldn't have liked (e.g., speaking in a snotty tone of voice) if they'd been nearby (which they weren't). Because I did not want to be in a position of deceiving them, I decided to give myself amnesia so that I wouldn't remember having committed any infraction. I rode my tricycle down the knoll in our townhouse's backyard and pointed myself directly at a pine tree that, if memory serves, was quite imposing in stature.

Anyway, I sustained cuts on my knees, and I attempted to deploy that unsatisfying ruse ever again (as of this writing, anyway).

I'm not trying to distract anyone, though, and we were talking about counting cards, and I think that
this could be really easy:

Benb: Is that a deck of cards?
Bystander: Yes.
Benb: There are fifty-two of them, if I
Bystanders (for, by now, a crowd has gathered): How did you do that?
Benb: I'm tired of living this way.
Bystander (for, by now, the crowd has dispersed) Me too.
What a confusing rigmarole. I will post the results on this very blog.

I can breathe only through my mouth; doing so gives me the "slow, chic" look that automatically renders me exempt from average human expectation. It's much easier that way, but I don't know if the first half of this very sentence was or is true.

I miss Molly and Desy and Ivor waaaaaaaay bad.

[UPDATE: The card-counting mission fell through, but will doubtless commence with my next Vermont soljourn.]

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