Maybe it’s an anniversary thing, since this is more or less where I came in. Where are – I won’t call him Papa – and, okay, the missus – during the Cupertino CBF? Somebody else asked. Somebody else answered.
And I repeated, dumb rookie that I was, and was swooped down upon by the flying monkeys, who saw through me and my innocent lfg4 to the incipient danger that lies in my black soul. Or my black soles. Or something. Maybe it’s mixed up with the iThings, Cupertino time being the time that appears on all iThings until you change it. In other words, it’s the default. That by which all else is compared. You’re either ahead of or behind Cupertino time.
Oh, pretty yarn. I just happened to glance to my left. Variegated 100 percent merino, for socks. That’s just a tic, a reflex, to look over my shoulder at what’s coming up behind me. On my right, oh never mind.
So anyway, it’s cherry blossom time all over the world, or at least in northern California and specifically in San Francisco. DC too is brimming and even overflowing with cherry blossoms and tourists, many of them Japanese, who take these things seriously. Hm, maybe that’s my mistake. Another one. Don’t take cherry blossoms or their accompanying festivals seriously. Or else take them more seriously. Whatever you’re doing, squeaking out a comment here and there, stop it. And once I typed Johnny Szary and hit “enter.” OMG.
On Facebook, which may be the font of all that is evil and probably associated with the dark arts, I “liked” the Shiba Inu Fanciers of Northern California so I would see what’s going on with the local shibas. I’m still interested, god forgive me, and all other information systems are closed to me. And then I found out I’m so important that if any fact leaks my way, the world will explode.
So these days I cling to rags, hints and dust, detritus, the occasional picture that squeezes its way onto my news feed which otherwise consists of leftwing politics, knitting and doges. I liked a picture, I made a comment, I made two comments about the tilt of a dog head, the fetchingness of its angle, and is that Hiro? I am old and I sometimes lose my mind and start blabbing in type, one word or two, a compliment, a three-word question. A question! Is that Hiro?
Gone. Whisked away. Who would bother? Who has time? Who has radar that picks up the blue flower and the name that must not say its – what is that expression? – the one who must not, or the silenced one or the one who’s been imagined so huge and menacing that she must be stomped upon by a Van’s? RAAA! Linda Greider! She must not be allowed to comment on the cuteness of a dog? What am I, fucking Edward Snowden giving away state secrets?