S T R E A M # 3 0

Start: The dog did not enjoy the tuna casserole, and by “dog” I do not mean Sally’s pet collie, I means Sally’s husband, Al. When we stop to think about the things that do not matter – which is something we often do – then, when the time comes, we check our watches and eat our respective tuna casseroles. We eat the tuna casseroles because we know Grandma would be sad if we did not. Thus, or hence, or hence-thus, the problem becomes one of consumption. Finally, the problem is ALWAYS one of consumption. What do you think about Al’s dilemma with the tuna casserole? Beets are enjoyed by cats in the winter when strawberries are not in bloom. DO strawberries bloom? No. Yes? No. I wouldn’t know. I am not a strawberry farmer. Who told you otherwise? Who led you astray? And why would you believe his or hers or their words over mine? What I feel the next time we meet when you are not sad with happiness in the tuna casserole. I haven’t – I couldn’t tell you about the last time I ate apple sauce in the train. (In the train? On the train? Aboard the train. Yes. Aboard. Aboard.) But it was soooooo good—that saucy sauced apple was. Particularly when you add cinnamon. That’s right, yogurt. This fucking machine. (And I’m not talking about a machine you fuck.) This fucking machine that I’m writing on - which is NOT a Knack but, in fact, a Quell - has a fucking mind of its own. (And, no, no, no: I am not suggesting that the machine has prurient thoughts. Christ. Get your mind out of the gutter. Will you please? For the Love of…) I swear to God. This fucking Quell’s touch pad has been working fine for months, and now, suddenly, it doesn’t work at all. I’ve turned this fucker off and on and on and off again and again and the thing won’t do what it’s supposed to do! This motherfucking machine. (Shut up—it’s my “stream,” my blog; I’ll intensify as I see fit.) As I was saying: This motherfucking machine. I use it for two things: For long form writing projects and for watching DVDs. But this stupid Quell, it’s got a better and bigger screen than my Knack has; it’s supposed to be Top Of The Line (well, it WAS, three years ago), but it’s a foul bitch with a mind of its own. This stupid Quell, because I’ve had so many problems with it, I don’t use it to surf the web, and I don’t add or update any software. So, in theory, it should run the same today as it ran yesterday. But, today, the stupid touch pad isn’t working. WHY NOT?!? And I can’t find the stupid touch pad application to try to futz with it. Probably because it’s not called a “touch pad.” God, I hate Quell. I want my three grand back, you bastards! I swear to God, these companies these days? They roll out technology long before they’ve fully debugged it. Frakkin’ greed, man. I’m spendin’ too much money. New clothes, new accessories, new books, and a frakkin’ eHermione account. Yeah, we’ll see how THAT goes. I just want to bury the past. It was all an act. Just another play. Yes, the curtain has come down—on me—right on top of me—but I’m not ready to leave the stage. I MUST convince myself that, yes, “All the world’s a stage.” If I can convince myself of THAT, then I will be truly free and truly be free—well, for a price. As Hawk once told Spenser (in ABC’s Spenser: For Hire) after Spenser asked, “You free?” Hawk replied, “Never free, always available.” Life is a tragic comic routine; sometimes it’s vaudeville, other times it’s burlesque. The audience: God and His angels. They’re all having a real good laugh. And Mamet writes about the Worthlessness of Reason. He quotes Shakespeare, supposedly, “When remedy is exhausted, so is grief.”* But I can’t find the source. Bottom reached? 

26 June 2008 

[“When remedies are past, the griefs are ended 
By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended. 
To mourn a mischief that is past and gone 
Is the next way to draw new mischief on. 
What cannot be preserved when fortune takes, 
Patience her injury a mockery makes. 
The robb'd that smiles steals something for the thief; 
He robs himself that spends a bootless grief.” 
― William Shakespeare, Othello

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