The Property Brothers. Those affable Canadian twins are hired to rehab and remodel a home owned by a serial killer, think Land Order SVU, who has mummified bodies in his basement.

Imagined dialogue

“I can tell you right now that those mummies are going to depress the value of this home.

I needed the new phone. What’s next, you ask?

Hearing. Aid.

Yes. You read it here first. Finally. I’m going to get my hearing checked. I’m apprehensive. It is an admission of my vulnerabilities, that I am an Old Man.

OK. People younger than I use hearing aids. The drama will end early. Some of you may even use them.

I can still enjoy the early morning silence.

Throwing out and tidying going well. Rather than start upstairs I worked on the kitchen. Then we got the new phone. Now I am tired and slightly odd-feeling, as if I need to sleep. I know that many people sleep and it’s a good thing. So I’m taking the kindle with the dyke porn on it and going up to rest

Later.

I had a feeling the old phone was about to go bad, so I went and got another one.

I was going to complain. Now I see that this particular intrusion on the routine of life isn’t rantworthy.

I will just change a few passwords if I have to, when I have to.

We are doing follow up on the water main break. Mostly that means I use up the water we brought in when the water was out. The County said ours was more complicated than usual

Back to Living

D

This is it, as good as it will ever be. Time to stop waiting for when circumstances will improve.

When I finish this post, I will go to my room with the captain’s bed and its ancient mattress and begin throwing away. I will think dirty thoughts while I do it, eating J’s cunt, wondering how far my tongue can get up J’s ass.

The only way she will know I can’t go on with the status quo is to tell her, not in words but with action.

How is it possible that I should be so sick of baseball?

How is it that Hollywood lost its magic in my lifetime, I miss glamour, the evening gowns by Edith Head, the dancing, Marilyn.

How is it that we, as a society, grew to hate manual labour? I was never happy working until I found blue collar work.

This is morphing into a rant. I do need some sleep, more than a little.

If only I could be held, then maybe I could cry. Is that the conundrum of our time, that we all do not admit to?

Most of my life has been devoted to the idea that I am different. I have to think of something off the wall to say. After a lifetime of this activity, I got to be good at it. I had mastered the odd ball persona.

I had taken the parental admonition against conforming to the group values and behavior to its logical end. “Ain’t nobody gonna be conforming to what I do.”

Finally I realized I was lost in my characters. Who am I? I took all the positives about myself the sober, funny, reverent/irreverent, intelligent spiritual athlete and finally embraced the. I added in my erotic imagination (aka dirty mind).

I am now approaching life as someone comfortable with who I am. I no longer have to burst out singing Frosty The Snowman in July to break the conversational logjam. Although I am certain I will always have to fight that urge.

In the Don Bass region of Eastern Ukraine is the monastery of Sviatagorsk Lavra. I can’t recall whether they are loyal to the Patriarchate of Moscow or not. Eastern Ukraine has a significant population of ethnic Russians.

This part of the world is an ongoing tragedy, where the politics and/or the religion serves to put merely a veneer on the killing. The Ukrainians and the Russians find reasons to kill each other.

It is more like a coat of paint really. In the name of The Revolution, Stalin starved a million Ukrainians to death. One Million. Genocide is difficult to forget. After that came the Great Patriotic War (WW Two). Some Ukrainians sided with the Nazis until the Nazis began killing these Slavic Untermenschen Ukrainians with the same gusto with which they killed Russians, Communists of all nationalities, and Jews.

Then Communism wore off. A new identity is applied. The mistrust, refined over centuries, survived. In this maelstrom of power struggles, it is easier for a politician to steal some government’s money (Ukrainian or American) and offer loyalty to the highest bidder. It is a pastime for cynics.

But here at the monastery, the people come and worship and celebrate the birth of the Christ Child. They do this celebrating thirteen days later than we do (The pesky old Julian Calendar). They offer gifts of cakes to Metropolitan Arseneyem ( Арсением). And they sing. The liturgical music is sung a capella. There is no instrumental music, like organs, in their liturgies. The children sing, led by a bearded monk dressed all in black, from head to toe.

It is ironic to see the same clear polystyrene cake protector domes here in Ukraine that you would see in Richmond or Denver or The Bronx.

What do the machinations of the politicians in Kiev, Moscow, or Washington have to do with the beliefs, values and aspirations of these simple people?

More to the point, what do the politicians’ machinations have to do with your beliefs, values and aspirations?

Maybe I am tired. Maybe I’m old. Maybe I’m the worst kind of lonely, married and lonely. As I write this J is upstairs sleeping. She spent yesterday and today worrying about the water main break. As if her worrying would miraculously energize the work crew and replace the broken pipes. I believe she loves me, without question. Still catastrophizing sucks the energy out of a person quicker than an anemic vampire sucks blood from the jugular.

I am now watching a YouTube video on Russian Black Sea resorts, beautiful places, the beaches perhaps too rocky for American tastes, but lovely nonetheless. The people at these beaches having fun look like the crowd at the Outer Banks, except they are entirely European.

This is a world I want to share with J. I ask her to watch shows like this with me. She declines. Hallmark Christmas movies, The Bachelor, and Law And Order SVU, are more to her liking. These simple lovely videos offer so much, an escape to an innocence thought lost in this world of supercomputera, hydrogen bombs or love stories and true crime dramas.

I’ve written about this before, bored you all with it before. Perhaps I need to fix her lunch for tomorrow, go back to bed and get back to fiction.

Later.