Carnivale Selah

I've been reflecting for awhile on Lenny Bruce's performance of "All Alone."  

"When she's old. . . then she's going to be sorry.  That's it!  Like she's young and swinging now and she can get a lot of guys, but when she's old. . . I can see her about twenty years from now. . . her future spells a murky gloom.  I'll be rich and famous and she'll be living in a furnished room, but it's going to be too late.  I won't hear her moan.  I'll be living in my Nob Hill mansion. . . and all alone."

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Break ups are shit, of course, no matter.  It is a failures, and everyone's to blame.  That's what we say, anyway.  And often, there is the attempt to be amicable at the finale, and one is wished well.  

"I truly hope you will find peace and happiness.  You are a great. . . ."

But I think, you know, that deep down, or maybe sometimes not so deep, the aggrieved party or parties are not so charitable  They hope they'll do better than their ex, and that someday he or she will be sorry.  

These are the happier thoughts I have been experiencing, anyway.  I may be better, but if I am, the return of health is taking its own sweet time.  I've eaten nothing but eggs and rice and soup for days.  Yesterday I tried a little yogurt.  I'm able to rally myself for a walk and a brief workout in the mornings, but then I am spent for the rest of the day.  I try to take to my bed, but then the horror show begins, and I can find no comfort.  

"All alone. . . all alone. . . . "

And I think, "I'd get better if I had someone to hold me."  And of course, research provides evidence for that claim.  But I don't want "someone" to hold me, do I?  No. . . I want. . . Hemingway's universe of two.  

Of course Hem had Mary to hold him, so he blew his brains out.  And Van Gogh, rejected and lonely, cut his ear, ate paint, went mad, and shot himself in the chest.  

It gets darker.  I turn on the television, too weary to read.  And I'm distracted for awhile unless the show is about death and dying which it seems half of them are, but sooner or later, I must narcotize myself and go to bed.  

And if I can't make any of my engagements this week, people will furrow their brow in concern. . . for a minute.  And one day they will say. . . "it's a pity," and their own lives will seem immeasurably better.  

I'm hoping today to kick it.  Vegas is out.  I can't count on feeling up to it in a few days.  I've already cancelled a day of art and drinking with my friend who is leaving town for good on Monday.  I may have to be a no-show at a farewell party on Saturday, and I am unsure about going with a group of friends to see "Oppenheimer" on Sunday afternoon.