I’m lying down on the little bed in the “Daddy Den” as one of my favourite people calls it. It has been hot and the thermostat was acting “uppity”, so I changed the little nickel size 2032 battery again after only ninety days and it seems to be working normally, whatever that means for 2021.

#1 son is doing better. We texted today about not hoarding, since he is an expert on order. I tend to be disorganised and a hoarder.

This brings up what I’ve been doing, which is throwing junk away and giving the local thrift shops plenty of inventory. I seem to recall buying some of the stuff from Goodwill, et al.,, that I’m now donating back to them. Go figure.

I feel like I want to say more, but this is the best I can do right now.

The situation with R, #1 Son, has stabilized. He has found excellent recovery and therapeutic services from a respected rehabilitation provider in the area. All I have to do is tell myself it’s going to be OK. I am not a bad dad if I m not with him all the time.

The attention shifts to home, where J complains of abdominal pain that might be gall stones, but she has yet to secure a doctor’s appointment. She is a “grown ass” woman and can secure her own appointments. I just wait, wonder, and worry.

And then there’s the house. The House. An accumulation of the detritus of unfulfilled dreams characterizes my share of the rubbish. Books need to be given away or sold, along with CDs, DVDs and furniture. The big, bulky phonograph I purchased to play vinyl records takes up space on my desk. My desk top computer, from Apple, no less, languishes from underutilization.

The debris is dusty. It makes for claustrophobia

I bought a device from Amazon for streaming services. I discovered that the programming available is barely worth watching. The sizzle of streaming services is emphasized over the tough steak of the same old junk, enhanced with a surfeit of “f-bombs” and occasional nudity.

Nudity. If it’s nudity I want, nudity is there with a few clicks. As the Preacher of Ecclesiastes tells us, “There is nothing new under the sun.” Pornography is a great failure for me. I want love more than a sexual thrill. Still naked women are beautiful, not the porn star feminized gyno-bots , but real women.

I am becalmed. Unlike the Ancient Mariner, I’m avoiding killing my albatross. I will push through to bring about a new course for my life.

Bedtime. Again

RB, my elder son suffered a traumatic brain injury(TBI) on 3 June 2021. It took almost a month for us to realize the nature and magnitude of this event. “Falling and hitting one’s head” seems trivial as a description of the accident.

He has no short term memory. He does not remember what happened the day before. He takes Gabapentin to relieve the pressure in his skull. It’s a long slow journey back for him. And those of us who love him.

I don’t know how often or how much I will blog for a while.

There is a place in our hearts, that is to say, at the core of our being, that cries out to God. He is listening. He has always been listening. We let our self-created noise interfere.

It is finally August. I look at time as a gift from God. I must be a good steward of that gift. What do I have to show for July? I did clean under the sink and inside the fridge.

I did some serious sleeping, having begun this post around midnight, I am resuming around 11:30 AM.

What persists? My son’s recovery from a Traumatic Brain Injury continues, although not nearly as rapidly as he or anyone else would wish it to happen. Time takes time.

My life with a hoarder continues. My marriage to a hoarder continues. All I can respond to her hoarding is hoarding on my part.

COVID-19 persists. An indirect exposure to a new case has prompted me to isolate. The affected person had been vaccinated, and I’m assuming he has contracted the Delta variant.

The weather is cooler today and rainy. The thought that the worst of the summer heat has gone provides encouragement.

I am wearing my hearing aids and I can hear the birds singing. And some chirping from insects. The sound of water pouring down the drain pipe provides a bass line for the higher pitch of the bird song.

Old problems were mentioned in the title of this post. I think some drastic and dramatic action on my part is necessary to rectify this situation. Maybe that’s why the problems persist. Small actions, consistently applied, may offer the lasting change.