Friday, January 15, 2021

Every Day I Wait for Tomorrow


 I went to the surgeon today (yesterday when you read this).  The scenario is decidedly undecided.  We will know more in two weeks.  I am tired, though.  Every day, I'm waiting for tomorrow.  This life in abatement makes me question, as the song goes, am I living or dying?  All I can say in answer is that it is good to be young.  But waiting for tomorrow is its own purgatory.  I need to tell myself that I'll be fine, that everything is going to work out.  

This is when I need the shoulder, however, of my own true love.  

I've always imagined life would end this way, like some morbid Sam Shepard script, a bad illness, alone, in a cheap hotel in some deserted town.  I'm researching towns right now.  

I am by nature a pessimist.  I always anticipate the worst.  The surgeon said I looked healthy and vital.  He was a nice guy.  I don't know how often he tells patients they look like shit and should be careful.  Maybe.  It probably depends upon the doctor.  

* * * 

Morning.  It is southern cold.  The cat was at the door just before daybreak.  Her boyfriend has not been around again, but I know the neighbors were taking a short vacation, so he is probably in the hoosegow.  The maids come today, so I need to do a little prep.  Not so much.  I've been very good at putting things in "their places."  I don't allow messes to conglomerate as in days of yore.  I've ordered my life a bit better. . . at least the environment.  

I did a couple of art experiments yesterday.  One came off an interesting failure that gives me an idea, the other a complete failure that gives me ideas, too.  Hours of work and nothing but ideas to show for it.  I may try again today.  

But as I did yesterday, I may go back to bed first.  Another hour's sleep would be fine.  

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