Time sure flies when you’re procrastinating. Not that I planned to be away this long. We  had several  dramas, “incidents and accidents”, to use Paul Simon’s marvelous little phrase.  My stepmother Dorothy fell at the Y and cracked her coccyx, AKA, “tailbone”. All in all, it turned out as well as you can hope for when a ninety year old falls. She just won’t be back at the Y til she’s healed a little more.

Then we had to deal with the final legal details pertaining to my brother’s estate. Part of the legacy was an envelope full of packets of stamps, mostly “Forever”, but some 42-cent  Christmas stamps from several Christmases ago.  That was so typical of my brother; to have a bunch of stamps.

The following week Dorothy’s Persian cat was acting odd, sort of lethargic with no appetite. I took Dorothy and Sugar to the vet, left Sugar for a work-up while Dorothy and I went home.  Turns out Sugar has  “the sugar”.  Yep, feline diabetes. She is not on kitty insulin yet, but she started a special diet.

During all these singular events, I continued with physical therapy for my back, twice a week. It was actually a workout disguised as physical therapy. It was tough, but I actually enjoyed it. This comes from a man who enjoys swimming 2 miles straight through. At PT I became very familiar with a device called the Total Gym, the apparatus for which Christie Brinkley and Chuck Norris do an infomercial.  The Total Gym is a serious piece of exercise equipment, sturdy and well-made. The particular exercise I performed was pushing my body weight with my legs while leaning back against the backboard. Serious stuff.

Going to physical therapy and doctors’ offices has reaffirmed my belief that I am an extremely fortunate 65 year old.  I’ll take my repaired rotator cuff and fused spine at L4/L5  any day over what I see my contemporaries  (and younger folks) enduring.  Specifically I see weight problems that put strain on joints; a man, crippled by Multiple Sclerosis, who gets in the pool and treads water every day. I am incredibly lucky.

Much as I would like to turn this into the next “Ring” Cycle, getting a modem is a bigger nuisance than I imagined.
First the modem I ordered from Amazon did not work. Back in the box and back to Amazon it went.
Then I called Verizon on the assumption that they provided my Internet. Wrong. They sold their book of Internet to Frontier Communications, whoever they are. I got hold of Frontier Communications and they could not find our account in their records. I told Jason, the call center peon, that I was ending the call because this wasn’t in the least helpful.
I always think of Eddie Albert’s character, Oliver Wendell Douglas, on the Sixties classic sitcom  Green Acres, when these little collisions with reality occur. I don’t have to climb a pole to use the phone like he did though. Another reason to be glad I have underground utility lines.

The modem for my big computer, the one with a real keyboard, is kaput. So a new one is on order. I have written a new poem, (I feel like Monsieur Gustave from The Grand Budapest Hotel.) but I have to wait for new modem to show up from Amazon.

One of the blessings of my disability is that I have been home most days and not driving. Thank God. This morning, I helped out a friend who doesn’t have a vehicle get to work. That meant I had to drive during rush hour. I saw what I was missing and I realized how lucky I am.
Anybody who criticizes conformity too stridently doesn’t take into account that conformity is what makes driving a viable means of getting places. We all agree to conform to the rules of the road. Being a unique driver isn’t particularly valuable.

Art is about increasing the likelihood of getting laid.

I’ve been working on a poem. No rhyming, free verse, not about sex directly, but erotic in its own way. A poem works itself out of my head and my heart.
As I lay in bed this morning, I listened to the birds singing and enjoyed the absence of other sound.
Serenity isn’t hard to come by for me. It does require me to be still though.

The stick says plus. Call me.

Today has been one of those days I wouldn’t trade for all the fireworks on the Fourth of July or all the hot dogs at a Labor Day picnic. Here it is, the 9th of March and I gave up checking on how warm it was after I walked outside barefoot at 8:00 AM to fetch the newspaper. It felt just fine.

So the day found me a partial sluggard, tempted to explore my concupiscence, but fully engaged with the glorious experience of being alive and healthy. There are pleasures that don’t get recognition; fresh strawberries for one, kefir, or a  peeled navel orange, sectioned, ready to be savored. What I long for the most is a woman sufficiently indolent to enjoy these delights with me.

There is one activity for which no partner can amplify the pleasure. That is my daily power walk. I stepped off around 4:03, beginning my ten circuit, four mile walk. The groundskeepers had put down hard wood mulch so the walk was filled with that fecund and earthy smell. The pine trees had sap that was running and the piney scent made its presence known too.  I saw my neighbors and my neighbors’ dogs. Sometimes I recognize my neighbors by their dogs on the other end of the leash.

After I finished my first lap, I asked myself if I was having fun. It didn’t feel like fun. It felt like air entering my lungs at a swift rate. and legs straining and stretching with every stride.  Self decided to speak up and give his two cents about the meaning of pleasure.

It doesn’t feel like fun now”, Self says.

“Wait till we’re done, Self, and we can see what we did.”

Self finally agrees to schlep along, promising to be unobtrusive, checking out the women, in case I forget.  Almost Spring means all women are beautiful. We are all attached to the glorious colors that await us, yellow daffodils, and forsythia, purple croci, red tulips, the marvelous pink of quince, and the  burgeoning extravaganza  that are the azaleas. Shucks. I left out the dogwood and the redbud.

Almost Spring has me picking up the pace, to see if I can average below 14 minutes for a mile, maybe hit 13 minutes a mile. When the walk is over, my stopwatch say 52:41.23, an average of 13 min. 10.25 sec per mile, a personal record.

Almost Spring has me motivated to move that much faster, to  feel the breeze blowing on my sweaty body, cooling it. Almost Spring is about that last lap and the cold water waiting in the kitchen. It is a shower , water pouring on my naked body, the smell of peppermint soup, tea tree oil shampoo, and water evaporating  on my naked skin before I  can dry it off with the towel. Almost Spring is taking my time getting dressed, wishing a lover could dawdle and lallygag with me, a lover thrilled to be naked with me,  open to  the dalliance of lust and the call and response of desire.