Last night in a dream I met Harold Bloom’s friend of thirty years. We were eating artichokes and oil, and his friend, who was the father of the bride whose wedding I was attending, forged a declaration I had to sign saying that he was my father. I didn’t think it would pass muster, but he was sure it would. It was a formality.
Finish your dinner and let’s go.
Bloom’s friend, David someone, didn’t like the present company, and I wondered how David, who seemed fairly inarticulate and crude, could have stood Bloom’s close company for any length of time over thirty years, or Bloom his. Neither was aptly developed for the other.
What was I doing there? I was with a woman I can’t remember. I was excited quietly that I was finally going to meet Bloom, as I could now approach him saying that I’d met and talked with his friend of thirty years, David something. Or David could introduce me, by letter or in person. There was way too much food, and nobody ate much of it or cared that so much was wasted. Everyone at the table was aimless and selfish. It seemed to be the way famous or important people were when they got together. Everyone talked, nobody listened. No one expected anything of anyone, and nothing was delivered.
Had something happened, it would have been noticed by the responsible party, who would then have resented not getting credit for it, which is why nobody was paying any attention to anybody, to prevent that disappointment. Hence the aimlessness of everyone, and the disgusting lack—I was disgusted, at least—of what has been called “conversation.” Should I do something to get conversation started? I had my answer in this gathering. The conversations that count aren’t the ones that get spoken of later as compensatory results of deeper failures, like getting married to your same-sex lover and losing your license to preach.
People are always telling me what I could do when I tell them I’m sick of what I’m doing. Youcould, youcould, youcould. Could I? The assumption they make seems to be that there’s always room at the top—that there’s an always and a top. And there are, I’m sure. I’m sure of them too. I see the top up there. The billions, the air of the billionaires. It’s all over the news. It’s all the rage, that billion air. It’s always there.
When we read emails, we sometimes don’t get what they feel.
I think that what we seem depends on how we behave.
It is said that eyes speak more than mouse in Japan.
The Japanese are traditionally autistic, but don’t take my word for it. If I could write like sentences like that, I’d pawn my affability.
They need training in showing they are feelings.
I use body language when I talk a stranger.
I want to be known me.
Your mother make meetings smooth.
Field to fork, I lift my earnings forecast. I wipe off billions from others’ books. I bag the moon, a Viagra-like substance, at auction, and flip it. Can political poetry matter? Am I allowed only to disappoint? It’s a whirlpool issue. The key drivers of the spiral motion make big inroads, or put forth big efforts to. Investors are frustrated.