Context

The cat didn't show up for breakfast yesterday.  When she didn't show up for dinner, I figured the coyotes got her.  She showed up later, however, and I fed her just a little bit to show my disapproval.  She wasn't very hungry, though.  She is obviously eating elsewhere.

Story of my life.

But I read this today, and I know I will not get any dates talking about my cat (link).

I went out walking with my Rollieflex yesterday and shot three rolls of film in the dingy haze of a brutal Florida summer that includes Saharan dust.  I will take them to the lab when the photo store opens.  I love that old camera now after having had it for many, many years.  Funny how that goes.  If the pictures from yesterday do not wow me, though, who knows?  Things could change.

I know a lot of people question why I take photographs and why I write.  Well. . . (link).  I've read Montaigne's essays, and I think what I liked most about them is that he made his own journals.  He cut the paper and decorated the pages by laboriously drawing borders with colored inks.  Fascinating.

I was woken this morning by excruciating pain shooting through my lower back.  No matter how I moved, I couldn't make it subside.  I got up in the dark.  No luck.  Was it my back, I wondered, or was it something worse?  The pain is still with me as I write.  I will take a walk in a bit and see what happens.  I know pain.  I promise you, this is pain.  It takes my joy level down many notches.  You know, the joy of living an isolated life in the Time of Corona.  But that life will seem much more tolerable, if not delightful, if this pain subsides.  All of life is like that.  Context.

Well, my back is killing me.  I can't sit here any longer.  I am going to have to go look for a dealer selling morphine.  If that doesn't work, I guess I'll try heroin.