Dogger Gatsby's Scribbles

Dogger's 49th birthday was coming up soon when he sat down and wrote this out in an old notebook. Later he typed it on an old electric typewriter in the year of his death. I came along later and entered it in my computer, where it was almost forgotten the past 9 years or so.

"What could possibly be more boring than this? Nothing comes up, arrives, or develops lately. Life just goes on. No fruit, no regards, no pity. I've been so polite and estranged for several years now that the concept of Old Flame seems to be bogged down in some cave age anti-diaspora, blistered by desert rays and hot stray winds, a fancy form of remembering someone else's life, not mine.

Shall the form ever be reassumed? Will there ever be a gain amidst this loss? What loss? What gain?

The Harlot and the Harvest are heavy symbols, but take me flightily and fightingly along. I'm light and bowled over and out of sync with myself. I've ceased to anticipate and pray that I stay so. But oh, alas, such beautiful strangers come along, disturb my day, my heart, my head! Where do they come from? I come to know them, of course, but on the surface of the skin and in the narrow of my marrow, and out on the way to Mayfair I realized that I had finally arrived alone at last. My ribbons were in a tangle and my clothes improperly zipped and everything I've worked for is in a hapless pile at my feet.

I'm on the sickbed to Disaster at a galloping gait, on the nightmare to that fear factor fate we dread at a gutbucket rate, on the way to my last slow defense and defeat by addle-pated nomenclature. Now, next, out the gate on the other side. I'm restless, I'm tired, I'm worn completely out. How much worse can it get... "

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