by Robert Demachy
Friday leftovers, sort of . . .
Friday afternoon. Cloudy and a bit warmer, 53 degrees.
Today is my father’s birthday.
I feel a bit better today, but Bailey seems to be ill with the throwups. Anyway . . .
by Robert Demachy
In this particular dream, everyone makes an appearance. I have gone to stay with a friend, someone who is much richer than I am, and I believe I have overstayed my welcome. The mother, so kind at first, is now snippy and bitter. And I have run out of formula for the baby with me. Finally, my parents come to retrieve me. The mother acts snooty, saying something to my father like, “Oh, senator. I’m so glad to meet you. I’ve heard wonderful things about you.” And my father just looks confused, and I say, “That’s not a senator. That’s my father. My. Father.” And the mother just gives me one of those creepy smiles to show that she knows perfectly well that my father isn’t a senator, but then my dad surprises me and begins to play along. Skip to another room. My dad sits down next to me and tell me that I am never, ever to associate with these people again. I pretend to comply, but he knows that I am hedging, so he repeats himself. I am so startled that I tell him, yes, of course. The daughter with whom I am supposedly friends comes into the room and asks why her bedroom door is gone, and the mother tells her that she doesn’t need a door. The father in the family sits next to me and whispers that he is so sorry for how things have turned out, and I wonder why he is even bothering. At this point, other people appear, including the Hunt brothers from my youth (Chris and Dave), and they are wearing tacky tuxedos, and I could just kiss them for their brazenness. I can tell that their appearance is really offensive to the mother, so I stop everything to introduce them to her. The mother begins to clean around us, but I refuse to let her get the best of me. I begin to wrap some books to leave for my friend, and the mother comes over and tells me that I have made a mess, when I clearly haven’t. I just smile at her, one of her own smiles back at her, and I keep wrapping. Then I tell my parents that we have to stop and get formula for the baby, who at different points in the dream switches back and forth from a dog to a baby.
I wake up to Bailey throwing up on the bed.
No plethora of leftovers this week. Only a Jon Stewart clip because it is so awesome:
and as an added bonus, this one featuring a new addition to the show, priceless:
More later. Peace.
Music by Tame Impala, “Feels Like We Only Go Backwards” (love this video)
For the young who want to
Talent is what they say
you have after the novel
is published and favorably
reviewed. Beforehand what
you have is a tedious
delusion, a hobby like knitting.
Work is what you have done
after the play is produced
and the audience claps.
Before that friends keep asking
when you are planning to go
out and get a job.
Genius is what they know you
had after the third volume
of remarkable poems. Earlier
they accuse you of withdrawing,
ask why you don’t have a baby,
call you a bum.
The reason people want M.F.A.’s,
take workshops with fancy names
when all you can really
learn is a few techniques,
typing instructions and some-
body else’s mannerisms
is that every artist lacks
a license to hang on the wall
like your optician, your vet
proving you may be a clumsy sadist
whose fillings fall into the stew
but you’re certified a dentist.
The real writer is one
who really writes. Talent
is an invention like phlogiston
after the fact of fire.
Work is its own cure. You have to
like it better than being loved.
Lola's Curmudgeonly Musings 