It took several hours for my headache to go away. I’m sitting on my porch breathing fresh air tinged with the lingering scent of cedar wood incense.

My neighbour, who wears headphones and talks exclusively to his German Shepherd, walked by, oblivious to me, only five meters away. I have scheduled a swim for tonight. That means I must slice J’s fruit and prepare her lunch. She is sleeping still.

I scheduled a dental appointment for 28 September. The dentist is concerned about bone loss around my lower teeth.

We have a different letter carrier this afternoon. From thirty meters distance I see a person, obese, their shirt untucked, most likely a male, with dark complexioned skin, perhaps a South Asian, perhaps a Latino. Just a temporary change I’m certain.

I hold this computer in my hand and press letters on the keyboard, in lieu of writing in a journal. This computer world is not the real world. One of Bezos’s minions just delivered a package next door. I see the interplay between virtual and concrete.

The World Of Things dominates. Janet is getting out of bed. I could and will go back inside and leave this tranquility of buzzing insects, breezes, and sunshine for later.

Today did not go as planned. I did not get to the pool, but I had a long and pleasant lunch with an AA brother, just talking about how we got to sobriety and sober living.

I’m working on the changeover to my new Mac and I needed some Ethernet cable for the task of transferring files, etc.

Today was unseasonably cool, occasion for my allergic response to something out there to kick in. The antihistamine makes me drowsy.

I am ready for bed. J is at work. Chad called me today a couple of times just to talk. Nice, makes a Dad happy

Well we are having a full-blown Petrol Panic around here. Lines around the block, etc. But I bought my gas around 3:30 PM before things got really gnarly. This gasoline issue should be over in a few days.

I went swimming, shopped at BJ’s, then had tacos with J at a neighbourhood sports restaurant. We then drove around to check out the petrol lines and get her a sweet iced tea at Dunkin’.

Now I’m sitting in my porch rocker, with patchouli incense burning, contemplating how glad I am to be retired. There’s very little road noise, plenty of birds singing and insects chirping. Either it’s insects or tinnitus. Doesn’t really matter, does it?

I have to ask my neighbour if I can put seed in the bird feeder in her crepe myrtle tree. Also if I can put a hummingbird feeder there.

As days go, it was pretty good.

The day began rainy and cold. I awoke, far too early, but obsessed with the thought of a dental appointment, four hours almost from my unwanted wake-up.

I went through a list of trivial chores that needed doing, like emptying the dishwasher of clean items, making coffee, checking on the status of the frijoles negroes in the slow cooker.

I was in the mood for huevos rancheros. Rather than serving the beans and eggs over a tortilla, I heated some leftover French fries from 5 Guys. Since they give you more than we can eat in one sitting, they were a prime subject for an alternative use.

I added some pieces of linguiça, the spicy Portuguese style sausage from the New Bedford area of Massachusetts, I enjoy from time to time. Breakfast completed, I determined that tortillas are a much better substrate for the huevos part of the meal, but the fries are gone, at least.

I still had another two hours to kill before the appointment. Bear in mind, the sleep deprivation made me a zombie, but I had to drive on.

The dental appointment was anticlimactic. I received kudos from the hygienist and the dentist on the state of my chompers. The dentist was particularly pleased how the extraction of the two rear most molars had halted the receding gum issue I had.

On the return I bought J a large sweet iced tea at Dunkin’, along with the cream cheese-stuffed mini bagels she likes.

Then I came home, slept for a couple of hours, awoke for a couple hours, then slept some more, falling asleep to my current musical crush, Joan Armatrading.

Now I’m awake. The sun is out, birds are chirping and cool breeze makes the outdoors perfect.

Dinner, fixing J’s lunch for early this morning, and swimming will round out the day.

Life is good.

Controversy Over Elon Musk’s SNL Gig.

Controversy over an appearance by a Tech plutocrat on a has-been TV show. They must put events on a wheel, like the one on Wheel Of Fortune, spin the arrow and if it lands on the event, then said event becomes news.

I don’t care about Musk, the Gates and their divorce, Trump’s Facebook ban, and most of all, Caitlyn Jenner and their entrance into electoral politics.

I’ll bet you don’t care either.

I have to tell myself:

To drink water when I awaken.

Sit outside in the fresh air.

Breathe deeply.

Be grateful for what I possess, not anxious over what I lack.

Sugar and other carbohydrates are not the answer to my problems, just as alcohol and sex aren’t either.

There’s more to learn about the Cosmos than what we know already.

God knows more than we humans know.

Actually it has arrived and the “you” is, in fact, “me”.

“Enough with the phantom pronouns, Dave, what is the it that has arrived?”

Glad you asked. My refurbished Mac desktop has arrived! Now, all I have to do is take it out of the carton and set it up, find a compatible printer, and I can take my writing to the next level.

I must say Mac The ‘Puter arrived just in time, because there is stuff that needs to be said.

First though, I have to take it out of the carton,etc.

What can’t I talk about? Take a guess.

Yes. That. Sex. Intimacy. Even a simple touch or sloppy kiss where we duel with our tongues.

I have a friend, whom I’ve never met in person. She lives in Kansas now, but originally in Illinois. We “love” each other, in the Internet meaning of love. We’ve carried this on for fourteen years. I am supposed to bare my soul to my wife, and deal with the dysfunctional sexual intimacy that characterizes our marriage. She, the friend, is hoping the dialogue and, subsequently, the marriage fails and I move on to her. She texted me yesterday to do something, as in talk. But I won’t. I never will. The mere thought of holding a forthright conversation with my wife makes me ill. I know I’m “supposed” to do this. I can’t.

So there you have it. Please no “suggestions“. I won’t act on them.

One of my favourite subtle and minor features of the film The Mission shows the Papal Nuncio in the story stroking a pet three-toed sloth, as he dictates correspondence to The Vatican.

Now you Seven Deadly Sins aficionados know that “sloth” refers to a specific type of laziness, acedia, or spiritual laziness. I’m not particularly lazy spiritually, more of a spiritual workaholic. But I’m getting slothful about working out, following healthy eating guidelines. I’ve grown indifferent towards self-care. This is short-lived, I hope. I didn’t go swimming much in April, only two times. There’s some latent sadness, always there, around the sexual desert of our marriage. It tells me “Why bother?”

Eventually the joy of being alive wins out. This afternoon, I’m sitting on my front porch, drinking hibiscus tea with lime, diluted with seltzer. Delicious and as decadent as this Spartan gets. There is the scent of cedar wood incense. My mind and body are enjoying the breeze, and even the sound emanating from the pipes of a Japanese (or Italian) motorbike of the “crotch rocket” variety. Just the perfect noise, a harbinger of Summer.

This porch time is too nice to walk away from. Tomorrow I begin anew.

I’m in this half alert , half dreaming state, where I want to stay awake to re-establish some sort of “normal” schedule, in conformity with the habits of most other folk. On the other hand, I could go right back to sleep, enjoying those sleeping hours. By now the morning is shot, if that means doing anything productive. I’ve ordered stuff from Amazon and other online merchants, had some yoghurt and fruit with my coffee, watched some Amtrak trains and a CSX freight pass through Ashland.

I think about the bed. And J. I will sleep with her. Sleep. Younger people, when they “sleep” are planning their futures. A half-century or so in the past, sleeping was about the dream of grandchildren in what is now the present day. This was in the dawn of the Contraceptive Age, where sex was divorced from biology, relegated to pleasure and emotional “wellbeing”. Little did we know we were sowing the seed of loneliness. We were becoming the worker bees in the hive of the governments, the capitalists, and the central planners.

So maybe I won’t go back to bed. I’ll ride out this lethargic limbo, watching empty refuse railcars move through Ashland, to be refilled in NOVA, then sent back to the giant landfill in Charles City County. Some cultures build monuments. We destroy them. We fill giant holes. These trash pits are our archeological legacy. The archeologists of the thirty-first century will speculate over the meaning of our trash pits, in contrast to the monuments destroyed by the barbarians in our midst.

The circle of our time.