Sitting. Eventide.

Well we are having a full-blown Petrol Panic around here. Lines around the block, etc. But I bought my gas around 3:30 PM before things got really gnarly. This gasoline issue should be over in a few days.

I went swimming, shopped at BJ’s, then had tacos with J at a neighbourhood sports restaurant. We then drove around to check out the petrol lines and get her a sweet iced tea at Dunkin’.

Now I’m sitting in my porch rocker, with patchouli incense burning, contemplating how glad I am to be retired. There’s very little road noise, plenty of birds singing and insects chirping. Either it’s insects or tinnitus. Doesn’t really matter, does it?

I have to ask my neighbour if I can put seed in the bird feeder in her crepe myrtle tree. Also if I can put a hummingbird feeder there.

As days go, it was pretty good.

Monday, Not Blah, Not Blue, Just Monday

The day began rainy and cold. I awoke, far too early, but obsessed with the thought of a dental appointment, four hours almost from my unwanted wake-up.

I went through a list of trivial chores that needed doing, like emptying the dishwasher of clean items, making coffee, checking on the status of the frijoles negroes in the slow cooker.

I was in the mood for huevos rancheros. Rather than serving the beans and eggs over a tortilla, I heated some leftover French fries from 5 Guys. Since they give you more than we can eat in one sitting, they were a prime subject for an alternative use.

I added some pieces of linguiça, the spicy Portuguese style sausage from the New Bedford area of Massachusetts, I enjoy from time to time. Breakfast completed, I determined that tortillas are a much better substrate for the huevos part of the meal, but the fries are gone, at least.

I still had another two hours to kill before the appointment. Bear in mind, the sleep deprivation made me a zombie, but I had to drive on.

The dental appointment was anticlimactic. I received kudos from the hygienist and the dentist on the state of my chompers. The dentist was particularly pleased how the extraction of the two rear most molars had halted the receding gum issue I had.

On the return I bought J a large sweet iced tea at Dunkin’, along with the cream cheese-stuffed mini bagels she likes.

Then I came home, slept for a couple of hours, awoke for a couple hours, then slept some more, falling asleep to my current musical crush, Joan Armatrading.

Now I’m awake. The sun is out, birds are chirping and cool breeze makes the outdoors perfect.

Dinner, fixing J’s lunch for early this morning, and swimming will round out the day.

Life is good.

Headline In Newsfeed

Controversy Over Elon Musk’s SNL Gig.

Controversy over an appearance by a Tech plutocrat on a has-been TV show. They must put events on a wheel, like the one on Wheel Of Fortune, spin the arrow and if it lands on the event, then said event becomes news.

I don’t care about Musk, the Gates and their divorce, Trump’s Facebook ban, and most of all, Caitlyn Jenner and their entrance into electoral politics.

I’ll bet you don’t care either.


I have to tell myself:

To drink water when I awaken.

Sit outside in the fresh air.

Breathe deeply.

Be grateful for what I possess, not anxious over what I lack.

Sugar and other carbohydrates are not the answer to my problems, just as alcohol and sex aren’t either.

There’s more to learn about the Cosmos than what we know already.

God knows more than we humans know.

Coming To A Porch Near You

Actually it has arrived and the “you” is, in fact, “me”.

“Enough with the phantom pronouns, Dave, what is the it that has arrived?”

Glad you asked. My refurbished Mac desktop has arrived! Now, all I have to do is take it out of the carton and set it up, find a compatible printer, and I can take my writing to the next level.

I must say Mac The ‘Puter arrived just in time, because there is stuff that needs to be said.

First though, I have to take it out of the carton,etc.

I Can’t Talk About It

What can’t I talk about? Take a guess.

Yes. That. Sex. Intimacy. Even a simple touch or sloppy kiss where we duel with our tongues.

I have a friend, whom I’ve never met in person. She lives in Kansas now, but originally in Illinois. We “love” each other, in the Internet meaning of love. We’ve carried this on for fourteen years. I am supposed to bare my soul to my wife, and deal with the dysfunctional sexual intimacy that characterizes our marriage. She, the friend, is hoping the dialogue and, subsequently, the marriage fails and I move on to her. She texted me yesterday to do something, as in talk. But I won’t. I never will. The mere thought of holding a forthright conversation with my wife makes me ill. I know I’m “supposed” to do this. I can’t.

So there you have it. Please no “suggestions“. I won’t act on them.

Sloth, Five-Toed

One of my favourite subtle and minor features of the film The Mission shows the Papal Nuncio in the story stroking a pet three-toed sloth, as he dictates correspondence to The Vatican.

Now you Seven Deadly Sins aficionados know that “sloth” refers to a specific type of laziness, acedia, or spiritual laziness. I’m not particularly lazy spiritually, more of a spiritual workaholic. But I’m getting slothful about working out, following healthy eating guidelines. I’ve grown indifferent towards self-care. This is short-lived, I hope. I didn’t go swimming much in April, only two times. There’s some latent sadness, always there, around the sexual desert of our marriage. It tells me “Why bother?”

Eventually the joy of being alive wins out. This afternoon, I’m sitting on my front porch, drinking hibiscus tea with lime, diluted with seltzer. Delicious and as decadent as this Spartan gets. There is the scent of cedar wood incense. My mind and body are enjoying the breeze, and even the sound emanating from the pipes of a Japanese (or Italian) motorbike of the “crotch rocket” variety. Just the perfect noise, a harbinger of Summer.

This porch time is too nice to walk away from. Tomorrow I begin anew.

Staying Awake

I’m in this half alert , half dreaming state, where I want to stay awake to re-establish some sort of “normal” schedule, in conformity with the habits of most other folk. On the other hand, I could go right back to sleep, enjoying those sleeping hours. By now the morning is shot, if that means doing anything productive. I’ve ordered stuff from Amazon and other online merchants, had some yoghurt and fruit with my coffee, watched some Amtrak trains and a CSX freight pass through Ashland.

I think about the bed. And J. I will sleep with her. Sleep. Younger people, when they “sleep” are planning their futures. A half-century or so in the past, sleeping was about the dream of grandchildren in what is now the present day. This was in the dawn of the Contraceptive Age, where sex was divorced from biology, relegated to pleasure and emotional “wellbeing”. Little did we know we were sowing the seed of loneliness. We were becoming the worker bees in the hive of the governments, the capitalists, and the central planners.

So maybe I won’t go back to bed. I’ll ride out this lethargic limbo, watching empty refuse railcars move through Ashland, to be refilled in NOVA, then sent back to the giant landfill in Charles City County. Some cultures build monuments. We destroy them. We fill giant holes. These trash pits are our archeological legacy. The archeologists of the thirty-first century will speculate over the meaning of our trash pits, in contrast to the monuments destroyed by the barbarians in our midst.

The circle of our time.

Porch Time

I had a weird dream, involving the government, assassinations, movement, as in escape. It seemed to take up an enormous amount of time, but it did not.

I was sleeping in the same bed with J. She was off last night. Nice to have her with me.

What she does is sleep. I’ve taken to sitting on the porch. We even bought new furniture, a wicker rocker and table so I can sit and rock in style. Sitting on the porch enables me to meet my neighbours, like Toby the rescue dog and his owner, Rebecca.

Today is a good day, cool enough still to wear my flannel shirt and wool socks. Summer will be here soon enough. I’m burning a stick of cedarwood incense. J is allergic to incense so I enjoy it outside.

I have fantasies about having conversations with people and making new friends. Friendships that last, where we share the beauty and joy of living. This is no small feat. We are hard wired for isolation. I have to tell myself to sit outside.

My wife still sleeps.


Mimosas And Memories

The Mimosa In Question

It isn’t that cocktail, champagne in orange juice but these, a sapling grown from a mimosa seed that blew into my front garden and germinated. I ignored the little buggers for a year, resisting the urge to do yard work. Then, call it pandemic fatigue, I said to myself, ”Get out of the comfy chair and watching YouTube videos. Go outside and do something!”

And so I have. We bought a hanging plant on Sunday. Then, on Wednesday, I bought the “J” hook needed to actually hang the plant on the front porch. Upon viewing,with pleasure and pride, my efforts at beautification, I knew these hideous saplings had to go. They were nothing but unwanted vegetation, weeds. Digging these tree wannabes out after they have put a root system down is a b-i-itch, but I dug four of them out. They look like they escaped from a Doctor Seuss story, when the leaves are out, but I got them gone.

And I think of my late ex-wife, Ayer, when I do the gardening. She has been on my mind lately. C, #2 son, is our child, now an adult. He inherited her Volvo station (estate) wagon and it’s been giving him trouble. He just finished working on the front suspension and now the engine is giving him problems. Getting another car means losing this surviving link to her. He was in tears over his dilemma.

We had dinner at an Indian restaurant on Thursday. I ordered goat curry, he got lamb curry. We had a good time. It was the kind of meal the three of us might have shared when the times were good.

Ayer is gone now, has been gone nearly five and a half years. The rancour and bitterness of divorce has passed. And I think of her now as friend, lover, gardening mentor, and yes, wife.

“But you’re married to someone else now”, you say. True. But I’m not ashamed of those years any longer. And I’m being the man, the husband, I think she would want me to be.

Look! Look! Look! See The Hanging Plant! Pretty, Pretty Plant.