The transmission.  From Tralfamadore.    The Transmission of the great knowledge, the great wisdom, from Tralfamadore, reaching across the Universes, is for, solely, "idiots."  Social outcastes. For people of criminal mind, but too sweet for any real significant criminal enterprises, nor any harm meant.  For all the people listed by Jesus in his little sermon on the hill.  For people who,  as Mr. Kurt Vonnegut put it, are like schoolboys still, in their minds, who spend an afternoon idly "jerking off and making model airplanes," which is to say, a private juvenile primate run-through game to prepare for love and war, rather than designing, say, nascent corporate empires.  The meek, the mournful, the sick, the poor tax collector, the sinners...  Regular folk.  Sometimes a disappearing species, given all the class wars and struggles.  More comfortably spotted out in the provinces, I suppose, having met my share of big city people.

The idiots, they know somehow that they should be teachers of some sort.  Their ideas and notions of the wisdom sort, such as they receive, are a little bit threadbare as far as logical thinking goes.   It's all in keeping with the laws of astrophysics, that it is only the idiots who get such things, having abandoned as much as they could practically in order to allow their own atoms to vibrate at the frequencies required.   Every morning, they get up, and their idiot DNA within, wires them up again, ready, solar stellar beings hearing the great hum.  Hum.



It is hard not to feel watched over when one is writing.  This must go way back.  Something beaten down into the DNA  of the species.  Perhaps mythologized, like the stories of the great flood, in what happened to poor old Jesus...  Western cruelty meets Eastern cruelty.


Sleet patters outside the apartment, pinging against the air conditioner window unit case.


Who would want a birthday in January anyway, but for a certain pride in envisioning his parents coping with the extra struggle of the extreme cold, getting the new babe home in the coldest of dark and deep blue starry light.  January.

Everyone has a cold.  No one wants to go out and celebrate anything at this point anyway.  Least of all you.   The couch.  In and out of rest, dreams.

And you've just gone through Restaurant Week, something jinxed about it.  One day left, one more night.  But the damage had been done.

And then too, even on my old birthday, on the couch, I dreamed of the Princess.  Some form of being welcome back in her life.  In her imagined Upper West Side apartment.  I'm visiting her, but she has written something down for me, that I find, by surprise.  I'm shocked.  I'm touched.  I cannot help but put a few words down on paper to commemorate this great acceptance, this great forgiveness.

Then, I wake, feeling sick. And I see mom has called me.