reminder: this is December

carnival music tonight, perfect for going to sleep to, reading the newspaper to, for waking up in the morning and sipping orange juice to. my cat was sick today; threw up by the front door and my wife woke me up for it – it was not exactly a discovery of carnival music. she says I have all the symptoms of walking pneumonia, and the fact that I know how to spell it is also another sign. maybe. I don’t know what to write about. I’m reading Garrison’s best seller right now. I’m not the kind of person to read a best seller, but this just sort of happens to fall into place. it is December of course and I’m enjoying a slow and mostly calm mood, accepting most styles of music, even say, salsa music. Mike Patton is a master of diverse styles. Casey isn’t a fan of Christmas, the trees, lights, or any of it, and I understand. still I have a soft spot for it, and like the whole feel of it, the ideals of it. I’m horrible buying presents for people, and I hate the feeling when the holidays are all over and the year by February sinks down back into that same mindset for the city folk here. they want me to be a part of it, to describe in a concise paragraph what I have to offer to the company at large. and that, that is how you land a job, not whether or not you liked the lamp post and how it made you feel as you passed by. nevermind me, I love how the ceiling raises up right there, give me the damn job. so you go and sit down in a chair for hours and do some work. the river is close by though, and you’re thinking to yourself how living a long life just may somehow triumph over the small things that are bothering you now.

in the novel a kid comes over and tells all the adults there what he thinks they should do, all the time mumbling and never locking down on any solid point whatsoever. for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why they didn’t stop him from embarrassing himself. “he’s so arrogant,” they thought. and they were bored to tears, like the kind of boredom that sweeps over me in the barbershop with the Sports Illustrated magazines on the rack, and I’m staring at the floor waiting for the woman to call me up and she can ask me how I am, and reminds me to keep my head straight. when the kid gets home he sits down and writes them a short letter. “I’m sorry for not really taking the time to get into it with you everything I was thinking about. maybe next time this will be interesting.” I need one of those white restaurant napkins to put in my mouth and choke on.

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