Updated: Jun 2
Here's a thought:
Before I finish the Disorderly Conduct novels on the three women, before I finish Argument and Ideology on communication across supremacist borders, before I spill the chaos of the Poems onto orderly pages, I pull together the raw rhaps into a fine sequential book of philosophical memoirs.
Friends-in-print tell me there's a perfect agent, a perfect publisher, a perfect union of my words and their intentions, resulting in the birth of the perfect vessel for my musings.
Yes, like a Shtetl matchmaker joining a blushing bride and horny groom into perpetual matrimonial bliss, God or Elizabeth Warren or somebody has a Plan. Except nowadays, post-Silicon Valley dotcoms and post-coronavirus lockdown, all is done online through Zoom. And these days we are all perpetually blushing and horny and yearning for bliss, all of us movers and shakers and unmoved movers and unshook shakers are jumbled into a cosmic Match or Cupid or Tinder swiping left or right depending on whether we want radical change or reactionary status quo.
Sucks—swipe left, let it go.
Doesn't suck—swipe right, keep it.
So no, I don't get it. I can't be composer and conductor and concert mistress. Even if I could be all three, back when my fingers and neurons flew like the wind, I'm tired now. And I might not live long enough.
My cane gets lost in the other room because I'm walking so slowly. I won't fall, alcohol is only for hands at the door now.
The weekly lifeline calls find me reasonably well. Tudo bem.
Didn't use my weak hand on any of the Lumosity games today. There's always tomorrow, my dear I-don't-give-a-damn Scarlett.
Lexus the cat has taken over the Lockdown Diaries, quoting Gogol, Camus, Bulgakov. He needs a new reading list. I'll work on it.
The book can wait. My favorite authors are all dead—except for Didion. No hurry.
19 APRIL 2020