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.
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