There was a time when I found all I needed in life (excepting affection) without having to surf the “adult” sites on the Web and subscribe to The New Yorker. That’s because I found that thrilling combination in Playboy. After having my computer infected by what might be called a “sexually transmitted disease,” I’m considering letting my ‘The New Yorker (TNY) subscription expire naturally and talking another look at what is almost an anachronism I haven’t even thumbed through since about 1989. My home office internet computer is at the repair shop, and I won’t likely get it back until May 10 at the earliest. The price of untempered visceral passion will be much more than a year of pulp friction. I may not even recognize most of the features, now that Silverstein, Pfeiffer, Purdy and Mailer are demised out of its pages. Only my confidence that i will recognize SOME of the content, particularly around the staples in the middle has me considering it at all. At least, I’ll wager. Gahan Wilson is still there. He’s in TNY, so he must be alive.
The unhappy malady (a pretty girl is like a malady) coincided with a recent promise to get off my keister and produce a book about Reisch Brewery I promised to Arcadia Publishing late last year. I’ve been so busy with the rest of my life I put the book on a back burner. I no longer read any more Facebook (Fb) than I must: just checking to see if I can attract more than 153 Fb “friends” and any group or event invitations and personal messages from “friends” therein. I’ve also posted notice at AeroKnow that I’m on hiatus until mid-June so I can give Arcadia and the book they attention they deserve.
It hasn’t been particularly frikkin’ easy with no computer. I can’t write the book on the one at work.
And then since a storm passed through town last week I’ve had no digital television. All I get is WSEC which is terrific in keeping Charlie Rose and other terrif programming, but there are days — especially on weekends — when even that has no allure. As a result, I worked on the aviation collection more than 12 straight hours Sunday.
Three days after posting about “anonymous” gift certificates, I received one from someone I’ve MET, good for Barnes & Noble. I shared some commentary about poetry she found worthwhile. It was not a “paid or a trade;” I’ll do as much and more for her and her Arkansas poet friends as I have in the past IF TIME WILL ALLOW. I was happy to do what I did. Even so, this is one gift certificate I will gladly accept. Thank you Barb Robinette!
Having no working internet computer or television at home is a blessing to me. People are my opiate. Folks who don’t respond to my Facebook messages — they know who they are — who needs that ragged screaming voidness? I’m not swearing off people, but with no regret and with best wishes, I am swearing off people who have sworn off me. There’s work to be done beyond their walls of contempt.
Oh, did I mention, my circadian rhythms is about as syncopated as a Scott Joplin rag? It seems I’m sleeping about four hours at a time, awakening, working duty work (things that MUST be done with AeroKnow) sleeping an hour and a half and back to the action until fatigue snares me to a pillow for another round. It’s a hump thing. — UPDATE May 11, EIGHT days after I THOUGHT I posted this. I DID get over it in a few days. Sleep rhythms are stable.
Totally enjoyed the Charlie Wells Scholarship Breakfast Saturday May 1 where AeroKnow displayed a bunch of 1/72 model planes and Kevin Panting helped, talking to model display visitors while I tossed down some pancakes and photographed the things with wings on the sunny tarmac. The gallery receptions at Sangamon Watercolor Society and Prairie Art Alliance were fab. Ditto the last Springfield Classical Guitar Society concert of the 2009/2010 season. I took a TON of pictures of all that Saturday action and will post them here after I get my computer back. The only order in my life is disorder.
On the positive side, the May Springfield Business Journal put my article about the new Southwind Park on the front page (THANKS, Bridget!).
Live long . . . . . . . . . and get by the best you can.
