I’ve been watching movies, most of the night, fof the stories, tbe acting, tbe cinematography.

Fados, a film about fado. And Portugal.

Now Dona Flor And Her Two Husbands. Yes Brasil. It is a great story. It features food, beautiful food. It addition to some nudity, it is an epic food porn movie. Food porn to rival Babette’s Feast, the all time best food porn movie of all.

Tonight I am watching the other actors besides Sonia Braga, who is a great actress, but her beauty is almost a distraction. The actor, José Wilker,   who plays Vadinho, the first husband, plays the a**hole that perfectly. I believe he is a real person. This is one of those movies where I think the camera is recording real life.

Since my sleep schedule is all askew, I thought giving up all plans for going to bed early might help. Right now it is 11:15 PM. Eastern Time, North America.  I might watch another movie.

No I am not crazy.

I will not get a tattoo.

No, I won’t go to New York by myself,

I love you.

Even though I want to feel the prick of the needle as the bluebird, the azulao, takes form on my pectoral.

And the heart on my bicep proclaims my love of Mom, even as I admit the times she didn’t deserve it.

And I don’t mean that I would run away, grown-ass man that I am, and let the diesel breath of Manhattan fill my nostrils alone.

Sometimes the Rebel simply plots.

NSFW Adult stuff 18+

I want you naked, head down, ass up. Ready for fucking.

I’m a simple man, you see. We’ll have courtship and preliminaries another time.

You know what’s creepy? Give up?

I’ll tell you then. Just how much of our culture, TV, movies, streaming, is given over to murder, homicude, rape, kidnapping. This is our entertainment.

And we wonder why we’re effed-up.

If you told me food was the way to forget, I would never stop eating.

Not that the memories are all bad. It seems as if I was never safe, even though I was.

What must I do to be loved, Mamma?

So I took my disconsolate and melancholic self to an AA meeting and shared how I felt; 1) that my attitude sucked, 2) that I didn’t care whether I lived or died, and 3) sobriety isn’t about the elimination of difficulties.

It resonated. People shared about the tough parts of their lives in sobriety, like the deaths of their children. At the end, one of my friends gave me a cross he had crafted from an exotic wood, spalted hackberry. I was more than a little touched.

I’ve been over indulging on the guava bars, so they went to the meeting with me and were consumed by my fellow pastry fiends at the meeting,

J and I went to lunch at Cracker Barrel. Today is the sixth anniversary of her Dad’s passing. I felt good just remembering such a virtuous man. He liked Cracker Barrel and I can hear him ordering iced tea as I write this, (emphasis on the“iced” part.)

I’m just plain tired. I realize. J is beating herself up for her shortcomings as a wife. I told her to cut it out. “Wife” is not a job, in my opinion.

So I need to rest. Minimize the stimuli and rest. Then re-start the other parts of self-care. I felt profound empathy for every one who has ever felt marginalized today.

“Come unto me all ye who travail and are heavy laden and I will refresh you.” St. Matthew 11:28-30.

When Jesus said that, he didn’t put qualifiers on when he would start refreshing. He just said come, with your burdens. That was an epiphany for me in this season of The Epiphany.