I tried to go sleep, with all the noise surrounding me that makes me sleepy, the right sitcom, the right beverage, lying in the big bed with the right mattress.

No luck. To the other bedroom I retreated, put J. S.Bach’s Magnificat on the CD player.

I went downstairs where the Russian Orthodox Church is celebrating something important. The Church is becoming my go-to serenity refuge. Maybe it’s the male voices chanting without accompaniment, the vestments, or simply the fact they these white bearded men have prevailed, over the gulags.

But they are here today, witnessing for The Lord in a language I only feebly comprehend, if at all

It’s 11:50 on a Thursday morning. Right now they are sharing God with me.

I once again will strive for the reverence, holiness and zeal that they profess for me

Because, right now,, I need to hear hear their voices

When I turned to the Russian Orthodox Church YouTube Channel Monday, the webcast originated from Ekaterinburg,. It was in this city, East of the Urals, where Nicholas II and his family were murdered in 1918. The Bolsheviks (Communists) killed the Romanov Royal Family.

Only two days earlier, a person, or persons, attempted to murder a former President and current Presidential candidate, here in the good ole’ US of A.

If you’ve been around awhile, you know that political assassination is cause for celebration, whether successful or not. And every side has been known to celebrate. It’s a universal sickness.

America is a country where fools can praise assassination and be disappointed at a failed attempt. Kinda sick, ya know?

So when The Russians memorialize the martyred Czar, I pay special attention. Maybe one day, we Americans will find political violence appalling also.

It was Sunday that my sister threw me out of her house. We were discussing the sale of our father’s house. At some sticking point, she shouted “Get out!” So I left.

It wasn’t that simple. Given that I’m still losing sleep over this incident, it’s pretty important. She texted to apologize. I accepted her apology, but I never want to see or speak to her again.

God it hurts.

So I went to McDonald’s to eat something this evening. I was the only customer in the store The staff is taking orders, fixing the meals, bringing the meal to my table, If you’re going through the drive through, it’s like hands deliver it to you. Chances are those hands are black or brown or maybe, a graying white guy’s.

We live in a world partially inhabited by ghosts, really just the people we would like to forget about.

I don’t know why I’m on this rant. But it seems the walls of separation between us grew almost thicker and wider overnight

What’s happened to this world?

This is that “another day”, about which Miss Scarlett famously offered comment. I am sitting on the porch, with the hole in the deck that the property management firm is supposed to repair. . The short term solution involves lime green duct tape to warn the unwary of the hole.

Looking around my demiparadise, I see another PRIDE flag, festooning another porch. This offers an opportunity to wonder about this neighbour.Of course, it’s none of my business. And she’s a real nice person. I just didn’t know this about her til the other day.

The crows are noisy this morning. The smaller birds, with prettier songs are expressing themselves also.

I actually talked to my wife about my emotional and sexual needs! It wasn’t that hard . I just said it. As you can see, I’m still alive. So there’s hope.

Coffee is inside.

Much has happened since I last posted: death, family rancor, some grief.

My stepmother died.She lived 13 years as my Dad’s widow, in the house we inherited from Dad. Now it is time to clean out stuff we did not remove after Mom died.

Yes. There is still plenty of stuff , an antique pin ball machine in need of restoration, a universal weight machine my Dad used, tools, lawn mowers, televisions, books, Marine Corps memorabilia. The house will be cleaned out, cleaned up, and sold.

My sister has decided she is the greatest real estate genius since Donald You-know-who. And will share her vast market knowledge with my brother and me. This is a free market system and the market will decide what the house is worth.

She has also decided to dump all her suspicions and dislikes about my stepmother’s adult children on us.

My goal is to take my share of the house’s sales proceeds, save it and move to Switzerland, before the USA blows up in a zillion pieces. Ever the optimist, I am. I might have to settle for a double wide somewhere in Wyoming.

Families find that crises are great opportunities for bickering among themselves..

Meanwhile the emotional and intimate wasteland that is my marriage flounders on.

I’m tired. So tired.

If Hitler were around today, he would need to have a sign language interpreter for his speeches at the massive rallies.

And the perfect addition for total relaxation at the Berghof would be a hot tub. Der Führer and Eva Braun could chill in the hot tub with Josef and Magda Goebbels

At 0330 I awoke, hoping it was later than 3:30. I went to bed at 1230 , hoping I would sleep normal hours like Mr Average American.

So I lay in my bed, the old bed I had when I was a junior in high school. It has no sheets, just a mattress pad.

I’m trying to figure out feminine beauty and sexual attraction and love. All three, in and of themselves, are major undertakings to write about.

We’ve been overwhelmed by this since David saw Bathsheba in her bath.

These musings are a product of my loneliness. My heart had been closed too long.

I don’t know how to end this. I need sleep.

Signing off

Do people still play bridge?

Are there still bridge columns in the newspapers nobody reads anymore?

I need to know.

Here I am, on the 80th D-Day anniversary, wide awake, reading, while watching YouTube. I start The Longest Day but I’ve seen it so many times (Spoiler Alert: The Allies prevail and win the war), that it doesn’t capture my attention.

I have a catalog of interests on my cerebral shuffle. I switch to a new theme, resigning myself to a sleepless night. I choose The Gay Divorcee, Fred and Ginger, and a giant helping of delight. I’ll see if I can turn my nostalgia to Hollywood, some great songs and even greater dance numbers.

There’s no reason to dwell on the Twentieth Century’s nightmare, especially when Astaire is a few clicks away.

Tonight’s takeaway: Men should wear hats again.

I’m finding lesbian romance fiction holds my attention, especially the girl meets girl and reluctantly fall in love stories.

(Back to the movie. Ginger Rogers is gorgeous, forever gorgeous).

There is another Pride flag waving in our neighbourhood . I’m not surprised, except for the surprise in not being surprised.

Now that I’m older and know more about moviemaking, I can see that Fred and Ginger really aren’t in England. Fred courting Ginger is pure magic.

Last night, I had big plans around getting up early and going to the Y and structuring my day like a proper petit bourgeoise. It didn’t work out. I suppose I should break up with my long term lover, coffee. I remember when my Grandfather Pop gave me a spoonful, with cream, at the dinner table in Highland Springs. Hooked like a blue marlin on Hemingway’s fishing rod.

Anyway I’m squeezing every milligram of magic out of the caffeine. I’m kinda sorta getting tired.

Bedtime. I retire with a new respect for the acting.skills of Edward Everett Horton