Sing It, Clowns

La commedia e finita. -- the last line of Pagliacci, when everyone is dead, or as good as.

For the moment, that is all that should be said about the historically historic election in history that is almost upon us.

And what is "finished" is not merely the illusion of participatory democracy (you actually believed that shit, dinnit ya? I did too, when I was much stupider), but the United States in anything remotely approaching the form in which you had ever believed it to exist. It's over, done, kaput -- finita, baby.

And not so by the way: this is especially addressed to all those -- on the right, the left, and anywhere else -- who continue to desperately cling to the fantasy that the U.S. might yet be "reformed" or "saved." Part of the genius of "the system" (and this form of genius is hardly restricted to the U.S.; study some history when you're killing time someday) is that it's set up precisely to make "reformation" and "salvation" impossible. The system was set on a course for this end from the very beginning, and that course was made irreversible beginning a hundred years ago. The system finally eats itself entirely, and then it's done.

I'm telling ya, sweetheart: history. So I repeat:

Sing it, clowns.

Also not by the way: this is not at all to say you should give up hope for your personal future, or surrender the desire for happiness and fulfillment. The problem for most people is that they place hope in all the wrong things, and look for happiness and fulfillment in all the wrong places.

There are some observations to be made about this latest charade in the ongoing disintegration of the horror show known as the United States. Without any exception that I have yet identified, none of those observations are related to what has exclusively consumed the attention of virtually everyone who has commented on the fun 'n frolic scheduled for Tuesday next. So I'll have a few things to say once the festivities have concluded.

I admit that I'm somewhat curious to see exactly what happens next week -- in much the same manner that I was somewhat curious to see exactly how the Titanic sank in that execrable James Cameron film (he sure loves him some execrable films, Jimmy does; that discussion of Avatar also contains lots of Obama-bashing, so you needn't fear political withdrawal). The details of how the wreck goes down can hold a certain clinical interest.

I'm still feeling exceptionally lousy, and this has been a very bad, occasionally scary week health-wise. Well, true of every week now. I continue to gather whatever strength I can muster, which isn't much these days. And I have been planning some essays, including one particular group of essays that I dearly hope to get through in the next month or two. (I've been thinking about these essays for over a year now.)

So I hope to start some of that in earnest next week. Meanwhile, one more time:

Sing out, baby!

(And for any smartypants out there: don't get all idiotically pedantic and literal on my ass and point out that Canio doesn't actually sing the last line, but speaks it. It's from an opera, fer crissakes, so literary license, etc. You're entirely welcome to do lots of other things on my ass, but not that. :>))

It's Rainy and Cool. I'm Not Dead.

And that's not the end of the good news.

There's an election of monumental importance in just two weeks. Once again, the always knowledgeable and perceptive American public will make known their great unhappiness with the manner of rule oozing out of Washington, D.C. An astonishing change will occur! Once again, we shall bear witness to the inexpressible glories of responsive democracy in action! We are incredibly fortunate to live in a time of such miracles. You should offer your grateful thanks several times a day, at a minimum.

Aw, c'mon. You don't think I believe that shit, do you? I said I'm not dead. And even if I were, I still wouldn't believe that shit. But I must acknowledge my boundless admiration for the reams of colossally ignorant and/or deliberately manipulative commentary telling us over and over and over again how significant and historic this election will be. How so many people can repeat these endless inanities so often without vomiting or self-immolating as the direct result of their measureless self-loathing is a considerable source of wonder to me. And all this about an election which will alter absolutely nothing of consequence.

That reminds me of what may be the title of a new essay I've been mulling: "How Can You Stand It?" Maybe I'll manage to get that done later in the week.

So, feeling marginally better. Still mostly awful, but not quite as awful. And it's cool. And raining. Love it.

My very deep thanks still another time to all of you who have been so wonderfully thoughtful and generous. I will continue to reassemble myself to the extent I can, and I hope to be back here with some further thoughts soon. Well, soonish. I have to take things very slowly now, but I shall plod on in my shambling, scrabbling way.

We shall meet here again, my friends. Soonish.

This Will End, One Way or Another

Just when I begin feeling not entirely awful all the time, the heat comes back. It was in the 90s both days this past weekend (and, as I've noted, temperatures approaching 90 degrees make my days intolerable). Now the weather reports predict mid- to high-80s for much of the week. Since (as I've also noted) such predictions seem always to be in error by about five degrees on the low side, I fully expect temperatures of 90 and above, probably beginning Wednesday. Here's a note to the weather schmucks: when your predictions consistently err in one direction, such repeated mistakes might suggest a mistake in your methodology. I suggest you look into it. Schmucks. (If we hadn't already, we can now place weather forecasters in the same category with all other alleged "experts": people who make a living by pretending they have "special" knowledge denied to the rest of us ignorant jackasses. Other members of that category include "intelligence analysts," virtually everyone in politics, economists, and almost all political commentators.)

I've been thinking about writing I'd like to do. I've even scribbled some notes on various topics. Now, again and still, I'm undone by the weather and the prospect of the coming week; on top of my perilously weakened health, it's genuinely more than I can take.

Well, as the title of this post has it, either the hot weather will end, or I will. No, I'm not going to kill myself. Don't need to! That's one of the great benefits of very bad health: if your life has become close to completely intolerable, you don't need to be concerned about ending it by some affirmative act. Chances are it will happen all on its own. All you have to do is watch, and wait.

I wonder how many comebacks I have left in me. I suspect not many. We'll see.

Very sorry for the bad news. Almost everyone seems to want reassurance that I'm "okay." News flash: I'm not okay. Haven't been close to okay for a few years. But I have no doubt that I'll receive a few emails in the next day or two saying how relieved readers are to see a new post and to know that I'm "okay." I always do, no matter what I say.

...

I wrote more, but then decided to delete it. My bitterness isn't at all attractive, and I myself find it fairly repellent. Given the particulars of my life in the last several years, it's a response that I find almost impossible to avoid. So I'll wrap this up.

If it ever gets and stays cool again, perhaps I have a littie more writing in me. Since the writing I've already done has had almost no effect of any kind that I'm able to discern, I don't know why I even care at this point. And in truth, I don't much care now. Merely trying to survive is all I can do.

It's a horrible way to live. As far as I'm concerned, it's not living at all.

P.S. Despite the above, I remain very grateful for the great kindness a number of you have shown. I warned you that donations might prove to be a very bad investment. Unfortunately, almost all my predictions here have turned out to be accurate. I suppose I should hope I'm wrong this time.

Okay: I hope I'm wrong. I'll check in again when I can.