So Trump wants to rename. The Gulf of Mexico The Gulf of America. OK . But this so-called Business Genius is missing the real opportunity present. Why not sell the naming rights to the Gulf of Mexico to the highest bidder. What’s to keep the Gulf of Mexico from being the Gulf of Budweiser? We could sell the naming rights to Hoover Dam to the Pampers Dam Lake Superior could be Molson Lake Superior.

Wild Heart : Natalie Clifford Barney And The Decadence of Literary Paris , Suzanne Rodriguez-Hunter

“That’s nice“, my readers sarcastically think. After all, I am an adult , possessing all of my intellectual faculties. Natalie Clifford Barney was one of the the bright lights in the constellation of 1920-30’s literary stars.

Strangely , I feel as if I have returned from a lost world. I did use my Kindle. There’s little difference between an e-book and a “real” book.

I had the television turned off during my reading session Now I have the set turned on, as I await a train , #98 The Silver Meteor, New York Bound. How quaint and strange is this tottering relic making its daily journey to Manhattan, an ever fading lost world. The culture no longer possesses a capital in physical space and time. New York could exist merely on a server, as does the e-book I just completed.

Better to not think about the cyber world too much. Let her fuel the fire of my imagination and then leave her to her repose. We now move from a shadowy digital world of images on computer screens to a fanciful universe in our brains. We move from one representation to another, believing them real.

Caution: Don’t think about these images too much.

I suppose this is not true insomnia. I did sleep for a couple of hours, before I awoke out of stimulation and curiosity and desire.

Do I run away to New York to attempt to live in a city I can’t afford to live in? To be a writer in a garret in mimicry of La Bohème , to fall in love with a woman not my wife? Do I want to spend my final years as a fugitive from a John O’Hara novel? I could do worse, I suppose .

I recall a film called Animal House. It was about class and status in America. It was funny, no question, about that. But it was really about who had financial and, ultimately, political power, and who are the gatekeepers.

Rush a fraternity, if you are a male, and discover if you are an outsider. This is a hard lesson in life. There are those who are insiders, those who aren’t. If you are an outsider you will learn this lesson in college. College confirms class lines and status. Arguably that’s the whole point of college, to learn your place

You will not forget this lesson. It is that brutal.

I woke up. Brushed and flossed my teeth. It’s now Three AM. I could not find my glasses. Spent about ten minutes, retracing my steps , looking for the “specs“. My wife, in her half awake dormancy, became aware of this trivial dilemma. It can be interpreted as more evidence of creeping dementia, one of her new concerns about me.

Oh well. I was going to read , but was distracted by a TV program on EWTN, the global Catholic network.I could watch this show, about watching TV, ironically , but resolved to stick to my mission of reading and writing.

An earlier wife that I used to be married to,worried about my Attention Deficit Disorder. That was, come to think of it, a wife, from a marriage that was annulled, and she is now deceased. Muerte. (More dramatic, I must admit),

So I am growing, evolving, from Attention Deficit Disorder, to early onset dementia. New wife, new speculative diagnosis, from another, non-professional spouse.

“Life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone.” – John Mellencamp.

He would be 76 today. I suppose he is 76 , only he’s dead . To say he is alive in our hearts is both mawkish and a poetic truth. I hear his voice internally. I don’t know what he would think about Trump , as if that is the only question worth asking, worth considering, the only question to ask in making sense of America today.

He knew a lot of stuff and had opinions about defence contractors, the Council on Foreign Relations, the Rockefellers, The Hunts ( the right wingers that own a football team now), Hugh Hefner, to name a few. He was a ham radio operator. He kept his fingernails long to expedite handling of screws and nuts.

He had the simple world view of a child. There is right and wrong. The great sacrament of the Roman Catholic Church was a Knights of Columbus Lenten Fish Fry on Friday nights. “Whenever two or three are gathered together in my name…”

He didn’t care much for Johnson, Nixon, The Bushes or The Clintons. Barack Obama reminded him of a men’s underwear model in the J.C. Penney Catalogue. He died before the Age of Trump.

He was averse to The Killing Business that is American Foreign Policy. And domestic policy, too. He called Janet Reno, Janet Waco. (Anybody remember David Koresh , The Branch Davidians or why they qualified for extrajudicial homicide?)

Charlie was paying attention. Maybe that’s why he’s dead today.

This hawk hangs around our neighbourhood, either sitting on a fence or a yield sign. The bird is a regular around here. Our predator friend doesn’t seem to mind the presence of humans . He is very photogenic.

Kinda cool.

Faced with the challenge of not thinking about sex, I resigned in despair. It’s not so much the act, but, who am I kidding, it is. A woman will open her legs for me, and welcome me home.

These thoughts are in the past, memories. Every pledge of love, without this union, rings hollow, in the emptiness of the day.

Like every lover, now estranged, I try to dream anew.

We shall see what lies ahead.

The British and the Irish call this Boxing Day, people go around with boxes asking for money to be put in the box. This is when the English have their madcap “pantos”. Watch some Monty Python. You’ll get the idea.

Meanwhile, it’s high Summer in Australia and the cricketers are on the ovals. There is a test match with India this year. We Americans are busy going to sales and returning ill-advised or ill-fitting gifts.

I have no respite from insomnia. I awaken around Four AM to watch The Silver Meteor headed for New York. I’m drinking coffee from my Waffle House mug, a surreptitious gift from Earl, a good soul who slipped one to me from their vast inventory.

I’m reading a biography of Natalie Barney, imagining life in fin de Sieclé Paris. I’m actually tired. But the romance attributed to Paris keeps me reading.

I suppose Resolutions for the New Year are in order. But I will have one last fling with procrastination before 2025 slips in.

I spent the entire day waiting for my wife to wake up. I didn’t eat, thinking we would go have a meal.

Finally I went upstairs to get my wallet and she decided to take her shower.

I had a section of Laughing Cow cheese and a small can of Coke. That helps in the short term.

I’m hurt.