The Scene in Morocco

She said she was sick. I said I was not sick. But as we talked her sickness travelled through the microwaves from her phone into mine and up into me. Within a couple of hours she felt like a new woman and I was sick as a dog. I feel like any moment I will deflate whoof and collapse onto my own shoes. My gut acted up, I was congested, and fatigued but unable to sleep.

Remember the scene in Morocco: How many today? The unexamined life is not worth living, but the examined life is dang near impossible. And its corollary: all men are pigs, but not all pigs are men.

I was looking through myself in an interrogation room observation mirror. After six minutes I had reviewed my life starting from my earliest childhood memories and relived every event.

A cat will usually scream before you even actually step on its tail; the cat can feel it coming, as cats have a keen sense of the immediate future. And although I felt the object underfoot, I hadn’t heard anything, and braced for a scream that wasn’t forthcoming. Phew.

I am grateful to Head Light and WUTR for giving me this platform upon which to say my piece, espouse and ejaculate freely. I mostly use the blog as a significant inspirational go to, for myself as a repository of links to other artists and artworks, and, as in the case of this posting, in a spirit of magnanimity (and delusion—my following is in the low single digits) I am helping other artists by bringing them to the attention of an audience that might not otherwise see them.

In addition to masks and social distancing warning bracelets, we are now required to have an Empathy Surveillance Monitor (ESM) attached to our ankle or wrist. The ESM will beep if it detects the wearer insufficiently expressing proper empathy as determined by social media algorithms. Citations will be issued and/or violators will be arrested and held without bail.

They keep you in by playing at your level until they want to eat you alive and up the ante and you fall pleasantly by the wayside on a sunny like when Thursday was still the new Friday afternoon.

copyright 2020 by the author

Please visit my website at www.randystark.com and my page at Write Up The Road.

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