Jesus, I'm late this morning. I drank too much last night. How much? Enough to send out texts and emails that maybe I wish I hadn't. Maybe. Nothing horrid. Just a reminder not to send anything when drunk.
Then I took a Xanax.
Slow going this morning.
This is a photo of my father and I and some fake flamingos. This must be our home on the banks of the Little Miami River in Ohio, though it might be Florida. How old am I there? This may be a photo from one of our trips around the world.
At least around the U.S. Pre interstate. My father was a romantic and wanted to travel after serving in the Navy in WWII. And so, often enough, he would quit his job and pack up the family in the Chevy towing a one-wheeled trailer that held all our army surplus camping gear--a big canvas tent, heavy cotton sleeping bags, a Coleman stove and a Coleman lantern.
The thing is, I don't think my father would have been wearing that outfit on the road. He DID have a real pith helmet that he wore (link). Where is that thing? I kept it for many years.
I probably inherited my itchy feet from him.
And that is why I sent this out to everyone I knew last night (and probably some I didn't).
That, and this.
This was the life I was supposed to be living in retirement, I said. Rather. . . whatever.
My blood feels toxic this morning. Water may be my tonic. I wish I liked it. Some exercise and a long walk. I'll force down a glass or two, but you know I'll need a little wine with lunch and a nap.
Maybe I'd be better out there, lonely on the highway and all that. As I noted last night, "all there is to do in life is to drink and write and fuck and eat and feel things deeply."