Writing to the British Shipping Forecast Blues

Paranoiac-critical to channel light vessel automatic—distortion to static—yankee hotel foxtrots in 3-minute fixes.

I’m good—occasionally moderately—and now I have the unveiling change heebie-jeebies. The only thing constant is impermanence.

And sure showers are good—but all day? all night? All right this is where we get off, get out, get thee behind.

I crossed a continent for a funeral that was cancelled. Crenelations and observations of the self lead to what? How do you find it? It was really an unveiling of sorts not a funeral.

So if the funereal is delayable when you start to notice your own breathing? Death is transmissible, baby.

We will now have surgeries instead of threnodies, but you may lament anytime you wish from anywhere on this globe — including Berwick, Guernsey and somewhere near the Hebrides. Oh what pain and navel gazing this has become. Get me outta’ heah!

Due to surgeries and broken bones I am 1400 miles away from home, untethered and at the edge of the country, in a state where they let the kids get measles (unvaccinated and in unconsidered ways) . . . because . . . America!

Got me a good pile of books to burn here.

I’se so crazy now I actually read an Ayn Rand book because . . . America. Because thee internets said so.

I have weather reports in this dead lilt, and the humidity creeps in, and the spring breakers break in, and the shootings multiply, the car chases are thrice daily, and the shootings once an hour . . . because . . . America! Land of the insurrection special.

I’se got the Saint Vitus dance without knowing the steps. I’m stepping in soggy watermelons, shagging the wheaties, and suffering the waffles. I’se got the cross country Zoom blues.

Remember, every good boy deserves fudge — and emphysema hacks. Who need Big Tobacco when microplastics are gonna kill us as slow as a tabasco drip.

I hope your good intentions pay off, because La Niña is about to make an appearance and the Atlantic is the hottest it’s ever been. The Gulf Stream is slowing, and getting hotter, and I’m hot with fleas and full of unrealized funereal bedbugs.

There’s a weird cadence to all of this, and if you figure it out, please, I beg you, PLEASE, let the rest of us know.

What I’m Reading:

I’ve spent my life running from one bit of earth to another. Carrying my smashed peace of mind into the oddest gangs of peoples. Take this one for instance. I bring them music and laughter and poetry and they throw me into a pitlatrine.

— Dambudzo Marechera / Black Sunlight