October 2, 2013

Paul the scamming hacker phoned forlornly all yesterday. I wasn’t here to pick up, but there were thirty-five failed calls, and after I got home several that said “unknown caller” which I didn’t answer. He did leave one message, “Sir. . . sir, please pick up the phone. . . “ What on earth did he want? Since his contact with my machine is gone, he must know I’m on to him. Since PayPal returned my money, he must know I’m on to him. Perhaps since I was so easy a mark the first time he thought he could convince me the second time. Odd sense of rootlessness without access to my main computer, though I did manage to transfer everything. Odd sense of insecurity, imagining he can get me somehow just by having my phone number. Cecily said she got a call like this in the Hague. What would the world be like if people didn’t try to take advantage? If people didn’t do every mean little crime they can get away with?

Dream before waking. My poems were part of an anthology, and all the contributing poets were gathered at a big auditorium to read from it.  I was assigned other people’s poems rather than mine. I was trying hard to do a good job, trying to figure out the odd syntaxes, the just plain bad lines.

Unusual agitation before heading to Ireland. What do I expect from this trip? My nerves expect something more than my mind does.