I Want to Dream of Sugar Plums

I am in a big, deep hole.  I am used to saying that I put myself there, but it is not all true.  Some, and maybe mostly, but physics and biology played a very big role, as did other people.  And so tonight, I am as alone as I have ever been, in as bad of health as I've ever been, with a cat who cries incessantly for me that I don't even want.  But I am kind to all sentient beings.  That is, other than myself.

Camus was King of the Cats.  Cool Kats, too.  He had the good sense to die early in a wild car wreck.  Forty-six, I think.  His liver had not had time to fail yet at such an age.  He'd already won a Nobel Prize.

I want to live in a world where "Le Stranger" is an important literary event.  My milieu is far flatter and thinner than that.  It is horrible.  It wears me out.

Last night I watched a documentary called "Bigger Than Elvis" or something of that sort about a movie star who gave it all up to live in a monastery.  Monastic life appeals to me.  Always has.  Contemplative.  Cloistered.  Communal.

It is bedtime and I have just gotten home from a finally finished night job.  Whiskey and some nuts, then bed.  I want to dream of sugar plums.