I went with the Russian Orthodox Liturgy. There was a funeral from Svatagorsk Lavra in Eastern Ukraine. This area recognizes the Moscow Patriarchate for ecclesiastical jurisdiction rather than Kiev. This will give you some context, for Ukraine is very much a fractured country, with language and ethnicity differences between Eastern and Western Ukraine. Many ethnic Russians live in Eastern Ukraine. Anybody remember the Civil War from a few years back? The Ukraine-Russia conflict is centuries old, with genocide in the 1930’s figuring into the tragedy.

The women in their babushkas, the priests in their rich and colorful vestments carry on with the ancient liturgy, through Romanovs, Bolsheviks, and oligarchs, worshipping the eternal power against the temporal grasps for worldly control. They know, I suspect, what really matters. It is a knowledge that Rome has forgotten or chooses to ignore. Look no further than the Amazonian Synod, the current and latest travesty of the Bergoglio Papacy.

I shifted over to trainspotting, in time to watch a freight pass through Ashland. It looks like mixed freight with plywood, potash, and trash among the commodities hauled. I miss the caboose at the end of a train. It gave a sense of completion to things, like a pitched roof on a building. I hear another train horn. It could be Amtrak #98, running an hour late. It is, passing through now.

J should be up soon. Her sliced fruit is packed in her blue-striped insulated lunch tote. She will shower and leave for work soon. I will be alone. Again. I believe I reverted back to my 20 mg dose of Prozac (fluoxetine) too soon. The pictures of night, darkness, interspersed with street lights, headlights, the interior lights of passenger cars seem to fill my viewing. It is a sterile desolate world. I need to switch back to the Technicolor© world of Bugs, Elmer, Porky and Daffy. Or simply go back to bed.

I have been awake since 2:23 AM. By the Seinfeld measure, I made it through The Mom & Pop Store, the first episode on Season 6 Disc 2, before I fell asleep. Figure a three hour stretch of sleep. I fixed J’s fruit snack, brewed some coffee, and am debating trainspotting. It won’t be another hour til #98 NB Silver Meteor passes through Ashland, if it is on time.

At this point, both beds are uncomfortable. Maybe cartoon watching, feminist burlesque, Russian Orthodox Liturgy or Nazi newsreels on YouTube are my best options to get me sleepy. Going with cartoons again. I know. I am in a rut.

It is 1:45AM Eastern Time. The subtle night sounds, insects, electric compressor motors break the silence.

I am awake. When we returned from $6 pizza night, I was tired. I had swum already. I lay down about 8:15 PM and ultimately slept a few times for maybe an hour. Catnapping. I decided around eleven to join J in the big bed, put in a Seinfeld DVD for my “bedtime” story. I last through maybe one episode on the disc before I fall asleep.

I woke up after 2 hours. I am awake, a little warm. I come downstairs, slice J’s fruit for work. I then prepped some salmon that needed cooking. It is cooking at 400°F for 30 minutes. I will have it for breakfast later with eggs, maybe grits (cheese grits?) on the side.

It took some effort on my part, but the TV is off. Reflexively I turned it on. I would then begin my search for something to watch. Usually. But I stopped, I read the posts from Succulent Savage, while I drink seltzer with lime. Routinely I drink decaf coffee, but even that can keep me up sometimes. I am now feeling sleepy. I think I will sleep in the twin bed, away from J. It’s easier, really.

Why do I think I still have to be awake and alert at Six AM, as if I have to be ready to go to whatever suck-y job I had when I worked? 41 years of bad decisions, buttressed by alcoholic drinking for twenty of those years, age 23 to 43. Then I found blue collar labour, and the satisfaction that comes with producing a tangible change in the physical environment, even if it was only a category section reset in a grocery store. My last twenty years working were my most satisfying. Neckties must affect circulation of blood to the brain in those executive-type jobs.

So now, I read, write, work out, practice patience, tolerance and understanding toward people who are as angry about the world as I once was. I also pray for the broken places and people. Silence is good for praying.

I’m sitting in my tan leather Scandinavian designed recliner, in front of the black hole that is my Tee-Vee. 📺. I have recorded my swim distance and time, looked at my Medicare utilization report, thrown out the day’s junk mail.

I swam 2100 meters today, doing a shorter distance just to break up the monotony. J is home, napping, because she is tired. All that remains on the sun care take down is sending the crap back.

Dinner will be a leftover extravaganza. I’m sleepy myself.

Nap time? 😪? Why not?

I went swimming, 2500 meters. I did the distance in 63 minutes: 14 seconds. I felt good swimming, meaning I could have swum farther, had I wanted to.

I am back upstairs with the no TV/YT guideline in place. J falls asleep with the TV on. So I hear it. The comforter is in the dryer. I will put it on the bed when it is dry.

But now it is a quiet time for me. I can think about sex, love, sport, or how I can get more comfortable. On my side works better. Are we just plain over stimulated?

One of the monks at the Abbey passed away. Brother David was 92. He was a cheerful man, with the proverbial twinkle in his eye. His funeral Mass is tomorrow. He had life of poverty, chastity, and obedience that he lived well. We should all be as fortunate, not to be monks or nuns, but to be satisfied with the simplest of things. Unplugged, maybe.

I went to bed at Midnight, woke up at Three AM. I tried to go back to sleep. I really did try. But once the wheels start turning inside the old noggin (figuratively, OK?) stopping them is hard.

I went downstairs to deal with the dishwasher,unloading clean, loading dirty. Now I’m waiting for Northbound #98, the Silver Meteor, to pass through Ashland. It is on time. The decaf has been brewed. This is recycle day. I need to get the crap to the curb, for whatever good that does.

Most days, I could just cry. Exhaustion. Outrage at the brutality endemic through humankind.. Sexual frustration. Physical pain. But a train through town brings out the little boy in me. It reminds me that there is adventure to be had.

Later, comrades.

Sexual content. Mature Adults, please.

How’s that for a Headline? Here at Dystopia Central we had issues with both toilets. Flushing involved more than a minimum of aggravation, beyond excessive handle-jiggling and lid removal to gauge progress of tank refill. After careful analysis and consultation with the local hardware store manager, I bought necessary parts, (new valves and gaskets) and replaced them.

J is proud of me. I should inform her that the usual and proper gratuity for minor plumbing repairs is a blow job, the grateful wife on her knees as she lustily fellates her husband in dutiful and submissive appreciation.