Here I am, in afternoon of summer of 90 degrees, feels like 103. Eighty-five here by the open window, 65% humidity. Fan on. Bearable.
Speaking of bearable. My life. Scale of 10: Varies from an occasional high of 1 down to -5. Considering that -9 fits into the suicide range, that’s not so bad. A lesser part of bad episodes is the neglect of my landlords toward my neighbor, that along with his disrespect for me stemming from his insecurities, small man complex, getting away with things, and my turning him in, a couple years ago, to the landlords. The landlords. There’s change. I’ve gone from golden boy to schmuck. I think the Swantons might see him as industrious, at best, but at worst, he pays his rent on time (mine is sent mid-month, second paycheck) and acts within their expanded tolerances as they see themselves as retired and find the whole property management a drag. So, here I am. The rental living situation I keep in a loose drawer, rarely opened and mostly avoid analysis.
Then there’s my lack of productivity. After a few months I managed to produce a good podcast about composer John Barry, that and a page-and-a-half of writing for another story. Ideas galore, production energy minimal. I’m considering another hour-a-day habit reserved for writing. It worked ten years ago. It will, at the least, keep me away from Civilization games.
I’m letting Ernie’s Nevada Poet site expire in a couple days. A backup resides on my computer in case he gives a crap. I don’t. Communication is so light as to be worthless.
