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