Is a Turtle as Happy as a Clam?

As I walked up the hill last night somebody said hi to me in the dark. Hearing somebody say hi, without me knowing who it was, only knowing it wasn’t a male, made me feel good, like I was ready to go to war for the sound of the voice, but in a good way where every human being wants human good to come to them, especially to protect the womanhood who walked in the neighborhood and had passed by me while saying hi.

‘Submarine’, painting, 20” x 20”, acrylic and paint stick, 2022.

If I hadn’t been alone, I would have asked a Republican: why can’t you just suck it up for 4 more years and vote for Joe Biden or Cornel West? I bet though that if you sucked it up and voted for who you really didn’t much like, Biden or West, because you are grossed out by the Republican candidate, you’d come back 5 or so years later with a greatly improved new human product that could be marketed as a real candidate!

Returning home after my walk, I turned the TV on and watched an NBA game. Watching the game was like watching the future, the future starring a 20-year old, 7’ 4” Frenchman named Victor Wembanyama, in whom everything I thought I knew about basketball was being transformed into a game I could barely recognize, where there was no Spud Webb or Muggsy Bogues on the court, only a spindly gargantuan rim-protector who ran the floor very well and could shoot 3-pointers.

My mind, as it is turning out, is a load-bearing joint; however, It’s not really my right knee or my left hip that’s disturbing to me, but instead is a metaphysical construct based on Mary Baker Eddy’s principle of scientific healing. And if I were to take the SAT test today I’d no doubt fail the mathematical section, enrolling instead in a community college and trying to make the basketball team there.