Early evening. My guts are jumbled up with homemade lemon pie. I write this from the Kindle fire instead of listening to Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scherezade and breaking my recent high score on the 2048 game. The internet is crowded with sucker fish. Why would I read and write on the “medium” app, website, ephemeral boredom hang out when I relearn to read and write every day? Isn’t WordPress and email enough? I don’t own a cellphone because I don’t want one and besides it’s bad for eyes brains and the East Congo.
“Too many eggs.” My mother warned me about the pie. I imagine hosts of 3 inch cherubs soothing my guts with healing laser beams. This is nice and funny.
I have 3 who write to me in various media. This is good. I’m mixing the miserable melisima of Pie with artistic conversations. I ate a homemade piece of underslept, overscheduled, “Busy”. The pie frenzy my mom has entered since returning from Arizona. Fortunately, she listens to my advice to use tiny pie pans. I can only eat so much. Today is the limit.
My stomach is a tower. The internet is a diversion. My waking dream uses palliative care of soda water and saltines. I’m not feeling very Yankee today. Yankees are from Vermont. They eat pie for breakfast.