without a little note on nothing. And since it seems no one reads this but me, I suppose I should address my note to myself:
Self, get busy, instead of sitting here writing nothing, you should be doing your boring and seemingly useless exercising. So, make a lovely cuppa homemade latté, soothe Ms. Katt, who just had a miserable nightmare, and I'll give you permission to write a bit as you drink your latté... made even better by a slug of Irish Creme creamer (don't read what it is made of, you'll be shocked!). At least the homemade foam on top is simply some powdered milk mixed with an equal amount of water and put into my super hi-speed blender... oops, don't forget the vanilla and fake sugar flavoring. After a few minutes of sitting in the blender glass in the fridge, the foam is firm and flavorful, ready to spoon out and sit on top of the coffee in soft little peaks in my nice new, fat little Pfaltzgraff mug that seems to hold the heat in the coffee down to the last foamy bit.
One more thing to do. Call George and find out what we are to write about for tomorrow's poetry meeting. Seems we are still doing the Gertrude Stein shuffle, and must write the end of "If we're always the same age inside then....." And "We're always the same age inside, so....." five to seven words each.
Ah, what do I care about Gertrude... now I have just seen the beginning of '60 Minutes' about the children being so hurt in this depression generation. I certainly cry for them, poor little things. What a disgusting thing George W. Bush and his dreadful 'leader' cheney did to my country. So many starving and dying... and children losing their childhood and what can I do about it? All those greedy billionaires... I cannot reach them. If only they cared, but they only care to have more and more lovely mansions and yachts and cars and toys of all kinds... while the poor little children lose not only their toys, but also their lives. And who cares? Well, thank god some of the poor middle class people who have tried to help them, while the rich build museums to house their second class junk art, or make sure they have a symphony to entertain them. I no longer long for a Victorian in San Francisco, but merely wish I could somehow help the poor children of this beleaguered country, as I try to do by sending as much as I can to "Feeding America. There is no god... perhaps those strange Jesus freaks will look into the eyes of the poor starving children of this country, of this world, and see that, although I doubt it, for they do not see anything but what they believe, whether it be true or false... what do they care... "I got mine, go get your own..." just like bush and cheney and their whole rotten gang, who stole my country.
But, on a note of triumph... next came Wynton Marsalis and his tour of Cuba... one of my favorite places. I do not pray, for there is no one to pray to... but I hope, oh how I hope, that we renew our diplomatic ties with Cuba and soon... perhaps within the few years I have left so I could return and walk again through Habana again, listening to the music, eating from street vendors... even going to see the Hemingway cats. Oh, what a joy that would be... and oh, if only I could walk those streets again with my darling Selwyn Jackson, Day Manager of Mother Clancy's House of Joy. Ah, where are you Selwyn... probably gone with all the rest of my friends........
A whole day to write this... in between the little chores like comforting Ms.Katt and answering the phone, or quizzing George and Pat on what to write for tomorrow. Now I have a few minutes to do just that... write something. It must be done... so I shall.
