Dismal, so it is!

Saturday 9:45 p.m.
                            It seems if you write a writer's blog, the main thing you have to do is pull  the wool over the eyes of the punters, the folk who might one day give you some money, or something.
                            I've got a wee jobbie, Jack. You don't need that stuff, Hotboy. It's definitely for people trying to become something, and trying in that way, and good luck to them for this is the way of the world. It's dishonest, but I will do it, with minimum, minuscule effort because I have to end up dying a rich and famous novelist.
                            Why do you have to die rich and famous, Hotboy? Well, Jack, when I was in my early twenties, sometimes people my now age used to ask me what I was going to become, and I always said, I'm going to become a rich and famous novelist ... because you were supposed to be sensible and get a proper jobbie so you could aspire to the stone clad houses of the evil bourgeois, and not be a bum wearing funny clothes and being dead cool.
                           So it would be better if I became rich and famous before I died. This might not happen of course, especially since I'm not sure about the writer's blog. A first step.
                            What about the wonderful writings, Jack? Well, Hotboy, let's face it, with all these billions of writers scribbling all over the world, and given your admission that you've never had an original thought in your life, what's so funging wonderful about them?
                            It's a picture of a life so far, Jack. It is personal; it is personal to me. Even although I haven't read them for years and years, I still wrote them, and it's kind of time stopped for me when I read them, or see them. They are more expressive than the diaries. All hot standing stones of remembrance every one.

                           So I  meditated all morning then went to the hospital to visit with our friend with the MS. There's a three bed room. One bed is vacant for now. There's a fat woman with staring eyes lying fat and flat on the bed to the right as you go in the door. She's fat and flat. You say hullo in passing ... this is the way the Alexandrian armies passed the left behind, everyone on the way to ... and find our friend with the MS in the other occupied bed.
                          On the way there, I had to get on a free bus. Flatheids can't experience this, but when I get on a bus, if I shut my eyes, I fall into amazing amounts of bliss these days. So you're holding that and doing the juju on the way down from the North Bridge; it's a straight line for ages.
                          I was looking at our friend and thinking she does not look so hot. Telling her stuff. Some response. The fat wummin in the other bed is still staring. When I saw her staring on the way in, I wondered if her eyes were dead or terrified. You just walk on by. You have not practiced the perfect response.
                         She's going to die, isn't she, Jack. We're all going to die, Hotboy.
                         So after meditating all morning and such, I closed my eyes on the buses going to the hospital. Tons of bliss. When I got there, I was trying to be quieter than my usual nervousness, and at one point just paused and closed by eyes. Then I'm sitting on her bed in a half lotus, and just stalled for a bit and fell into the bliss. I opened my eyes and there was still the fat, staring wummin, and our friend who was looking more than pale and interesting.
                       And you cannot give them the bliss, can you, Jack? No, Hotboy, you cannot give them the bliss.
                       Grief, sorrow, lamentations ... disillusionment, disappointment and despair ... suffering in this life ... for the too dumb to meditate. And even then ...