The nature of departure, returning without purpose

As all of you will no doubt note, this is my first post in over two months. I am not dead, nor have I ever been, but I will someday, and that is the most obvious statement emitted since Kennedy was pronounced dead. I have traveled far, called away to tutor Slovaks in English. They had had little training before me, and I think someone had a little Python-esque fun with a particular student named Vlad. For example, "Hello, my name is Vlad and in my country the weemen have hemorrhoids the size of golf balls." I have seen Slovakian women, and it isn't so. It took much work but I had made significant improvements and by the end of my duty it was more like, "Hallo, my name is Vlad and in my country the weemen DON'T have hemorrhoids at all unless they breed for the army." I was less than amused but at least it made more sense. I never caught the rabble-rouser.

I guess my readers are wondering why I would interject such vulgarity into my discourse. It's because no one seems to care anyway. A man could threaten suicide, massacre, and it would be neglected until someone actually died. Then they would find he was a loner, a hermit, a pariah, and the term loner is besmirched for years as it becomes synonymous with psychosis. Why are the loners the crazies? Couldn't one say that in their rejection of civilization they realize how against nature modern civilization is?

I don't advocate massacre, but we can't dismiss the destructive as crazy.

Parphit and Dolores continue their infernal affair and I have been looking for new living quarters as of late--Spurlock and I are considering bunking together like a couple of bachelors again. It almost seems fun, up all hours playing Dictionary like rapscallions tossing responsibility to the wind, listening to jazz music and ruffling the feathers of the square folk on either sides. Parphit has indeed landed a role in a now-airing Oscar Meyer commercial. Is there no end to hypocrisy? He left the beautiful culture of his country and it's not like he was an 'untouchable' (especially to that trollop--why does she plague me so?) I guess his hypocrisy makes sense if his mostly vegetarian country has nuclear weapons. All things are negotiable...

Life died (Spurlock's parrot, if I'm not insulting you). Someone poisoned his organic sprouted grain crackers. He started to fly and then dropped straight out of the air. Spurlock has been the perfect Taoist about it. "Better to not have any pets, I guess." But the sadness in his trumpet playing is all we need to know of his immense grief. This is the 42nd pet he's had since 1994, never owning more than one at a time.

He and I wrote a song about our life's troubles, called "The Contortionist." I will publish the lyrics hear and eagerly await feedback. Perhaps I will be able to post a recording somewhere, sometime.

I bend my back to look through my legs
I bend my legs back over my head
Hold my ground
Stiff like lead
All to win a scrap of bread
from your table
I'm able
to do things you never could
I'm the circus
at your service
I'm the ascetic
pathetic
emetic contortionist

I'm in half but to you
it isn't enough
Bed of nails
on top of pails
you wail and howl
I slip in a moment
of shattered grace
and you proceed
to throw the tomatoes
at my face yet
I'm able to do things
you never will
I'm the circus
at your service
ascetic
pathetic
emetic contortionist

Now I am tired.