I was just doing dishes at the sink and ignoring the mobbers’ prattle, coming through now on the north side of the house despite sound board and the muted speakers of the television. But having just thumbed through an old copy of Alphonso Lingis’ sensuous philosophy for passages underlined decades ago (Pleasures of the blinking eyelids, in a tingling field of sweating pores, flicked ears, nasal hairs quivering and sneezy, from Excesses: Eros and Culture), the mobbing doubletalk is evermore stereotyped and boring… ho-hum.

But I did have a thought. Did you ever see one of those performance pieces, like the ones where an artist lives in a museum for a few days, a week, living life while the museum goers buy their tickets to stand in front of the cordoned off temporary digs of the artist as she eats cereal in her pajamas and scowls at them?

Well, that’s what my life is like. Yes, I am the subject of the mobbers’ portrait, shall we say, a not-so-still life, I am that small stick figure in the snow globe as you shake it up and down, I am the glassy-eyed doe in the diarama! I, yes I am Lydia Fuckin’ Lunch, the performance artist of my own life. Except my performance, yeah, my performance for the scumbag mobbing profiteers who want to pull the property out from under the very table on which I write, has been going on round the friggin’ clock for more than eighteen friggin’ months!

Up yours Lydia, yeah! I can take you any day! Karen Finley, hand me the goddamn yams!

♣

And now, back to the dishes.

Uh-huh. Please do not let this flight of fancy sway you from reading my serious blog entries below. Please help me to get the FBI to arrest the neighborhood racketeers and the scumbag mobbers they brought with them. I’m a writer, dammit! A writer! Like with a pen. And paper! Sometimes some coffee, French press with a slop of soy milk. Maybe some wine, but only if it’s red. With tannins. I like tannins. It used to be cigarettes but I gave that up. Not a performance artist. No way. Nah-uh.

Criminy!

Sheesh.