I know, I know. . . it looks like all the other full moon pictures I've posted. I'm not proud. I needed something.
I continued playing Spring Cowboy yesterday. Took my mother and cousin to the big nursery across town to buy butterfly and hummingbird attracting plants and bags and bags of mulch. The maids were cleaning house. Took my car for a wash, wax, vacuuming, etc. Spread fertilizer on the yard. Watered the palms, ligustrums, and the grass torn up by the city. Did an hour of cardio at the gym. Then, because I needn't go to my mother's for a second time in the afternoon, I took a hot Epsom salts soak. Showered. Made a Campari and soda. Wrote a longish text to my New Old Friend who is going on Spring Break with the college kids in the Keys. She objected to my depiction of her trip. Then I went to a place quite near my house that I had forgotten about during the Covid years. All they make are poke bowls. Being out and about at a time I would usually be sitting in a rocker at my mother's was quite. . . liberating. I could feel my spirit rising. Rain Man, my friend wrote. A prison of my own choosing. I know, I know. . . but what can you do? By god, though, if I had my days back and the time to structure as I wanted. . . .
We all need excuses.
After dinner, I decided on a whiskey and a cheroot. It was the last cheroot in the box. I won't be buying more for a long time. I've cut down on my consumption of alcohol, too. It is spring. I need my beach body back.
As I sat on the deck, an old friend walked by with another fellow. He was always in terrific shape--swam, ran--but is no longer.
"Trying to lose my beer belly," he laughed.
"Won't happen," I yelled back. "Once you have it. . . ."
Of course, there are drugs that will help. He has done them before.
Group texts from the gymroids. Happy hour plans. Too many boys. It wears me out. I'd rather go with the girls. I must have been really lonesome to get caught up in this.
The girls are trying to get me to come to Miami with them. Not all girls, but a majority. I've already declined, but they persist. I don't know. Maybe.
Sun setting, I went inside to read. Goddamn, this Annie Ernaux can write. It seems breezy, but there is more to unpack in one paragraph than is possible if you want to keep reading. I hesitate to recommend it to many, though. It is devastating.
A bit later, Q writes to tell me that he loves the Ernaux book.
The evening wears on and I'm worn out. I turn on the television to watch the first episode of the new season of "Perry Mason." Initial reviews were not good. I've only seen this first episode, but they seem mistaken. The thing is a tone poem of voice and mood. Perhaps, however, it is not contemporary enough for a young critic. The past is bad. We all know that now. We're better off with "Wolverine."
As you all know by now, though, I can be quite enamored of flawed things. I'm with Shakespeare on this. I'll leave you to work your way through that one.
I could barely keep my eyes open through the entire hour. I was tired and quite anxious to curl up in bed and head to dreamland. Which I did.
Full moon. Disturbing dreams. Up at four.
WTF do I do now?
I believe I'd like someone to hold me the whole night through. Or at least initially. Then, you know, touch toes or something. Then, waking from a bad dream, spoon again until sleep overtakes me.
There is nothing like your Own True Love.
The sun is far from rising. I am not sleepy, though, and will not return to bed. There is the Ernaux book to finish, or I could work on a couple of projects. Maybe I should walk in the dark and see if I get arrested. Limp, I should say. Yesterday, my knee was not so good. Still. . . hope. I will make it stronger.
And that, my friends, is today's Emotional Weather Report. Clear days, cloudy nights. Wild swings in the passing of a day.
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