I went upstairs to lie beside my wife, as she watched rerun after rerun of Little House On The Prairie. OK. Then she wanted me to prepare a quesadilla for her, with a corn tortilla rather than wheat. No big difference.

I had settled in, even as Little House was saturating the bedroom with its unique banality. Then I became restless again. My eyes ached, but I could bear Little House no longer. I went downstairs, took my metformin, watched a few episodes of a World War One documentary. The sharp brutality, tempered only by black and white film is the originating myth of our time, now playing itself out in Ukraine. Lemberg, Lvov, Lviv, only the names change. And the butchers.

My home, like the world, scrapes along. We have our pains, as our dreams of grandchildren flicker away, in my son’s alcoholic reveries and seizures.

The orgasms of half a century ago were meant to spark a legacy. We didn’t know that then.

Nothing Really Wrong

Nothing Really Right.