Jan 1, 2022
Today was beef wellington day. What a shitstorm. Two recipes, one on video and another printed out. Thirty dollars worth of meat. Unknowable puff pastry projection. Five filet mignons held together with sticks. And it was still delicious. Will make again after a couple checks. Maybe Sandi and I can have more storm-out-of-the-kitchen arguments.
Feel like hell. Like having a hangover that stays with me, hour after hour. Tired. No surges of passion of any kind. Lots of coffee. One-and-a-half packs of smokes a day. Looking forward to continued garage organization and installing another motion-sensor lamp and repositioning a camera to monitor the possibility of my next door neighbor stealing more. After the clean up and reorganization of the garage this activity will be more efficient. I think of it as a plague that wiped out some of the tool population. What a place to live, on one side of a duplex involving a criminal enterprise sponsored by a vindictive hillbilly. I pidgeon-hole thoughts of this. Will organize, monitor, and maybe feel good about what I have left, which is most everything.
Forgot. An inconvenient situation. Learned that I have bone cancer But, if symptoms don’t worsen, and so far none are noticeable, I can continue to live the emotionally empty but physically normal days ahead as if I didn’t have this condition. For the record, in an attempt to clean ear wax from my right ear with a water pic, I punctured my ear drum. Will it heal itself? Who knows? And purchased dental insurance — a case of closing the gate after the horses are out. Brush every night pre-bedtime. Speaking of which, my sleep has no pattern. 3:00 a.m. for bed is the norm. An early night is 2:00.
Writing: Have six stories including the Junction novella. Everything decent spins off from that. And finished Podcast #19. A rumble of ambition to immortalize ideas. For whom? Hmm . . .
Will finish with an umbrella observation. I often feel as though most of what I do is decoration for a structure that I imagine to be my life. The idea of doing myself in is a mental pose. There’s not enough of me to make the effort. It isn’t pain or any kind of suffering. Call it the being of nothingness. The big illusion of a life. My ideas are of no consequence. Standing at the edge of an ocean. watching the waves curl over. Foam. Hardly getting wet. Just watching. A notion of swimming has replaced immersing myself in the water.
This kind of writing fills me with a sense of movement. Not progressive. More a stirring. Writing might be the only time I feel alive, a part of God knows what. There’s content, heart, and thought in my life. Significant? Putting ideas or a plot or description into words makes it seem so. Yeah, I need to write more.
