My Dear Ms. Sessum,

Will you quit blogging such nice things about me …

How much easier to give than to forkin’ receive …

Most people never get out from under the rainshadow of their parents’ gaze …

It’s hard turf, hard to chart, hard to navigate. No maps. Lots of dark matter. A black hole or two, to marry.

Fate would bring a sweet soul into my life …

That awful noise you hear is some rusted hinge inside. Damned Fate, prying it open again.

Yours Truly,
Zo

April 12: See, I don’t get up in the morning. I get up and it’s morning for me … but, alas, not for most. By this hour, everyone knows Kurt Vonnegut has died, and probably a good many of you have burst into the same somewhat surprising tears.

Ah, but the heart remembers. I have always maintained, it has a memory like a horse. A writer whose worked you have loved, whose sayings became part of your sayings … regrettably, time has its way. But those tears? That pain at realizing he is gone? The body remembers. busy busy busy. A flesh diary. So it goes.

So much more steadfast than the mind of daily life.

Oh, my dear Mr. Rosewater, bless , keep.

Isn’t that a Monty Python song, or am I imagining things again.

You believe, as I do, that every human life has value, that the strong have a duty to protect the weak, and that the self-evident truths of the Declaration of Independence apply to everyone, not just to those considered healthy or wanted or convenient. George W. Bush.

How like Dubya to spread a clause until it touches—just barely touches—upon the magic word. The trigger, the hot-button. The code in which he speaks, and in which they hear. Read the rest of this entry »

Tish writes: “I worry about my Dad. I’ve seen aspects of him that I haven’t before. He has tics. Times where he shouts out for no reason. He fights the tics and the shouts. I feel bad for him that he is alone. But I can’t change him nor can I save him, nor can I cure his loneliness by sacrificing myself. His loneliness goes so deep that it can’t be cured. And I am not a god nor a saint.”

I don’t know, I think this realization might be more upsetting than just about anything.

11 held in Iraq over death of Irish-born aid worker US and Iraqi forces yesterday detained a group of men suspected of abducting and murdering Irish-born aid worker Margaret Hassan last year

no matter what you think of it nor how useless, nor that there aren’t any answers, the question beats on and on and on and on

until i am quite sure what you hear is the exactly the beat of the human heart. no more, no less.

So this self-appointed little wanker drivels out the most odious memoriam to Arthur Miller:

“And yet, the effectiveness of Death of a Salesman and The Crucible—Miller’s best work, by a large measure—suggest the man was something more than a propagandist turned into a literary icon … ” Read the rest of this entry »

“I lie on the beach there naked,
which I do sometimes
and I feel the wind coming over me
and I see the stars up above
and I am looking into this very deep, indescribable night

it is something that escapes my vocabulary to describe.”

— Marlon Brando : 1924—2004

{ fin }

U.S. District Judge Phyllis Hamilton’s ruling came in one of three lawsuits challenging the legislation President Bush signed last year.

She agreed with abortion rights activists that a woman’s right to choose is paramount, and that is therefore ‘irrelevant’ whether a fetus suffers pain, as abortion foes contend.

Jesus, can you hear the shit hitting that particular fan right now. “Irrelevant.” We all wince at that one.

Read the rest of this entry »