Superficial trainspotter that I am, when I see that AMTRAK #98, The Silver Meteor, originating in Miami, is running on time, I begin to wonder “why“?

Are there not enough passengers? Does no one want to go to New York? Have there been no equipment failures, breakdowns, or malfunctions?

Maybe I am just a cynic. Because at 4:53 AM this Thursday morning, I hold out little hope of a normally functioning world. Call it Covid-19 Fatigue. We will walk around masked, surviving one step above martial law, naively trusting politicians and physicians, hoping this nightmare will end some day.

But most of us project the inner turmoil and drama within our own psyche into the exterior world around us. Or so I’ve heard.

Maybe if I had a good night’s sleep, or my cock sucked, or both, I would feel differently.

Later today, J and I will drive to Fredericksburg, where she will check on some products in a supermarket, This is her second job. She wants me to ride along. In case she is too tired to drive, I can take over.

I’m sleepy again.

27 May 2001 was the day J and I were married. We celebrated nineteen years today.

But first I had an appointment with the podiatrist who checked out my nasty looking toe. There was fungus. He prescribed a fungicide told me there was no need to remove the toenail. The dried blood present is not a problem, just

ugly.

I was groggy,sleep-deprived, longing for sleep. After a nap, I made a reservation at our location of Maggiano’s Little Italy. I had cod with a piccata ssuce of lemon dill and capers. J had ravioli and we shared cheesecake for dessert.

She is at work now. I am awake. I miss her and want her home with me. She can take her full Social Security in five months.

Do not read mushy romance stories about couples in love, if your partner never expresses any physical and sexual interest in you. Stick with the World War Two crap.

As an avid exerciser, I set a goal to work out five days out of every seven, 20 /28 days.

I have a minor issue with a toenail on the great toe of my right foot. Could be fungus. I have thickening and some dried blood in the nail and nail bed. Not pretty. In fact, it’s down right nasty looking.

I scheduled an appointment with a podiatrist for tomorrow, and ten days ago, I realized I would have to (power) walk every day from 17 May to 26 May if I wanted to reach my 20 for 28 target. Usually I like a rest, but the podiatrist might tell me to lay off for awhile if he has to remove and treat the toenail.

Ten workouts in ten days is the challenge I gave myself. I could have made up an excuse to skip a day. It would not make that much difference in the general training schedule, but skipping a day would be a challenge to my commitment.

I finished the whole ten workouts. It was a beautiful day for walking cloudy, breezy with a comfortable temperature, 70° F(21°C).

The ornithological highlight was an Eastern bluebird, with nary a vulture in sight. There were numerous other walkers and bicyclists out today. All in all, a great day

In the long overview, regular walking has meant that my arthritic hip has been far less painful than it has been in years. Walking helps keep the joint lubricated with synovial fluid. Walk. Beats a hip replacement any day. Just remember this, especially if you are under fifty.

Lube. It’s everywhere I need it to be.

Right now, I am watching a black and white travel film of the Algarve region of Portugal from 1938. Kinda quaint. Makes me want to travel through distance and time.

This is a day to do nothing. J is sleeping, has been since about 4:00 AM. J sleeping is par for the course. What can I say?

I had a fitful, unsettled night til I fell asleep about 5:00 AM. I woke up about noon, did my power walk around 1:00 PM. A good walk it was too. Rather than disturbing vultures consuming carrion, today’s wildlife star was a rabbit. I got close enough to the cottontail to notice his spotted coat that would blend perfectly in a wooded environment.

I did some sitting on the porch. Fun. My shower was pleasant. I am suitably lethargic.

This is all for now.

First of all, seven months til Christmas. I guess Hallmark Channel will start the Christmas movies soon. 

It was a strange day after our brunch. I did my walk. I saw a couple of vultures picking over some road kill. Not the kind of bird watching I get stoked about. 

I came home, showered. We picked up some fruit and cookies for J’s lunch. Right mow, at 430 AM, I am awake and kind of frazzled, as if I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in several…..years.

J worked a five hour shift and is home, too wired up to sleep just yet. We avoid having sex. No wonder I haven’t slept well in years.

It is one of those Sundays I fancy in my dreams. Brunch is ready for whenever J decides to get out of bed, shower and join the ranks of the conscious.

The day is quiet as only a day where there is no place for most people to go can be. The birds are chirping and singing. A chipmunk showed up a while back.

I have my flag out for Decoration Day. Maybe I will find that eponymous Charles Ives piece and listen to it.

For all of you in the British Commonwealth, Decoration Day, now called Memorial Day, corresponds roughly to Remembrance Day, November 11. We honour our (ever growing number of) War Dead. We use November 11 to honour all of our veterans.

The custom of putting flowers on the graves of the war dead, “Decoration”, began after the Civil War. Until about fifty years ago, the day celebrated was May 30th. It became a “Monday Holiday” so people could have a long weekend.

One of the neighbourhood white squirrels obligingly posed for a picture the other day. I’m posting it here

And here flies the National Ensign.

Life is good.

I’m still up, mesmerized by a stream of photos on YouTube. I need to go back to sleep. Why am I still up? Maybe I’m exhausted. The pictures evoke nostalgia and Weltschmerz.

Who loves me?

I woke up around 4:00 AM for no particular reason. I thought I would sleep in the other room, but gave up and came downstairs about 4:30.

Right now, I’m looking at a collection of historic photographs on You Tube. Celebrities like James Dean, Kurt Cobain, Jim Morrison, Marilyn Monroe, Elvis.  There are also pictures of Paris, New York, the Golden Gate Bridge.

The celebrity pictures remind me of my childhood, where the weekly arrival of Life magazine was eagerly anticipated. There were pictures of Marilyn, The Beatles, Sophia Loren, Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, just for starters. The Kennedys, Nixon, Dr King, Malcolm X, George Wallace, Barry Goldwater filled out the pantheon.

I remember reading in Life of how Burton and Peter O’Toole, during the filming of Becket, went pub crawling in Cambridge, I believe, drinking boiler makers. I thought that was cool. I could not have been more than 13. It turned out to be a dark foreshadowing of my life. I so wanted to be famous when I was a teenager. Still do secretly, to be honest, but now realize it is no big deal.

The weekly picture magazines, Life and Look fostered that culture of fame in a way that TV or the Internet can’t. The images stayed around the house for weeks, not disappearing like a television or computer image. 

And, of course, the celebrities, moving in and out of marriages, weren’t exactly reflections of my family’s Calvinist values. I think I was traumatized by Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz’s divorce. That divorce shattered my sense of security as if they were my own parents.

The magazines always hinted that there was something more that could be attained by buying Coca Cola, Marlboro Cigarettes, Cadillacs, Playtex foundation garments, Clairol hair dye. It was a sick fuckin’ world. The rise of Playboy,merely focused the envy and acquisition lasers on sex.

The imprinting, no brain-washing, took me years to reject. It took sobriety, 12 Step work and a reaffirmation of traditional Judaeo-Christian morality for me to turn the corner. That doesn’t mean I’m Mr Straight Arrow Normal, but dying drunk or from an overdose have no appeal for me any more.

I am sitting in my chair, staring at the camera view of Ashland, Virginia. There is a microphone that picks up random snatches of conversation, plus music from a radio in the background. “Soul” hits from the Sixties can be heard

“Hey there Lonely Girl….” I think that was Little Anthony and The Imperials. If it wasn’t, it should have been. There are more Sixties hits playing, pre-Beatles. Maybe Motown or Phil Spector. Now we have dropped back a decade. Buddy Holly is singing Peggy Sue.. You don’t hear many girls/women called Peggy Sue any more, or Mary Margaret, Madge, Bertha or Midge.

The person with gender dysphoria is riding their bicycle. Why not? The sun is out for a change. A train passes through, # 89, the Palmetto, bound for Savannah. I imagine a train, full of people, all headed to Savannah to visit Olivia, author/blogger of Olvia Submits.

It has been a morning of sleep, laziness, lethargy. I am going back to bed.