Close to half the month of the first month of 2022 gone — fewer than 9 months till the Republicans take over the Senate and House. Biden is giving an empty plug for a filibuster carve out today. Not much optimism here.
Feel like crap — not sure if the bone cancer is progressing. I know I’m not. Progress toward, and there’s the rub, what? It happened rather quickly, going from my working theory that we become old when we picture the rest of our lives just as they are presently. Half a decade ago there were ideas, projects in the works or floating in my head; these last couple years, it’s just a status quo proposition.
No garden is possible because the critters, who lost their home with the mowing down of the trees by the orange grove to make way for an idiotic pipe connecting two lakes. The sandwich frame rampage? No interest and little way to promote. Building structures out of wood has ceased due to laziness and a lack of enthusiasm to improve the property next to my hillbilly neighbors junkyard. And, I’m down on the landlord’s failure to do anything about it.
So, just living. Writing and podcasting are my only two creative outlets. A small group of crazy, neat people in Ontario picked up a couple old items for their online magazine. That was nice, but my stories, numbering six, including Part 1 of Junction, have met with routine rejection. That’s my feeling about my life generally. Not much pick-me-up. Grateful for life? Yeah, sometimes, but not often enough to make it seem worth living. It’s just day-to-day.
I’m cleaning out the garage, organizing, and finding papers, pictures from decades ago when my life, though rudderless, made sense. I can picture myself sitting on a park bench in Brooklyn feeding pigeons, perhaps naming them. Whew, glad I’m not in Brooklyn.
Friends. Being an inpopulate kind of guy, my time isn’t spent in places where I can make any. That went by the way, way away side when I stopped working. Know what? I miss having a few people who are in the same ballpark, mentally, as myself. There’s Facebook, a surrogate for friendship, of course. Disappointingly, I’ve contacted a couple people I found there from years past, but they showed no interest in re-establishing meaningful reunion. I began to realize some time ago that there’s something about my personality in a relationship that says, okay for now, but after you or I pull up anchor and head out to sea, never return. Maybe this: They’re into one another while I’m into ideas and sharing them. I squeeze out personal interest. The “squares” syndrome from my upbringing, perhaps.
Icons are dropping like flies — most recently, Betty White a week ago and Ed Burns from 77 Sunset Strip a couple years back. Also, director Peter Bogdanovitch. But, when Robert Redford goes, hmm, and he’ll be 85 this summer. This leads to more thoughts about the end of life and the after that. I’m not morose about it, more of a curiosity and how do I pack my life for the trip. At the start of the week, I posted three words: “I hate death.” No explanation. No graphics. That garnered 33 comments so far. Evidently it’s on many people’s minds.
