Tuesday, June 5, 2012
For those of us who are almost decrepit, it's sometimes necessary to go to bed very early, and just lie there staring at the ceiling, wondering what the time is, until a Yellow Chat regains his voice at about five o'clock in the morning. I prefer to think of it as a chance to explore a mind and its ghosts, look for an understanding of oneness, imagine being. And, even if to do so admits defeat, try to believe in purpose by seeking calmness. Then we can get up, look at the day with fresh eyes, toddle around, reckon on doing something deemed useful by those who are better adjusted.
But, at around eighty-thirty or nine, this valuable and frequently misunderstood reverie was interrupted by the telephone ringing. And because The Artist is traveling, I pulled myself together, so that my "Hello" might at least sound endearing. Difficult to explain the intensity of reaction when I heard through the wires, "Hello, it's Mitt Romney." I'll tell you this much, there's no way he knows what he's doing, because if you want to "Restore American Greatness," you don't ring people up in the middle of the night asking for money.