I'm going to need to change my tune, what I'm writing about, how I write. All the romantic, dreamy stuff about moons and solitude and sailboats. . . whatever. It is not doing me any good. I have spent the last three days alone, mostly sleeping. Maybe it is sadness. Maybe it is depression. Alcohol, I think, fuels it, the home alone version. What is it I think about when I lie down? SOS. On a shingle. I hang on to threads. It is silly. Romantic longing is its own un-reward. I'll need to live in the absolute, if dire, present. So. . . this is the last soppy paragraph I plan to write.
This morning started off great. I hit the coffee maker button and it ground the beans, but as happens from time to time, the plug was loose in the socket and it didn't boil all the water. I had to unplug and replug it. As it turned out, I was out of milk. Not a problem, though. I always keep a can of condensed milk for these "emergencies." And, as the old poem goes, I punched a hole in the sonofabitch. And when I poured it into the coffee, it looked orange. I, in my ultimate stupidity, decided to taste it. Why? Why would I do that and then pour some of the milk into and empty cup to see. Indeed, it was orange. Pretty sure I will get botulism and die an agonizing death as there is no known cure and nothing they can do at the hospital. With this knowledge, I got into the car and drove the the minimart to get milk. The sun was just coming up over the lake. It was beautiful. There were joggers and walkers galore. I used to get up and run with sunrise, but it has been a long time ago now, and it seemed I was in a strange new country. Still. The land was still and fresh. I should get up and go out in the mornings, I thought. Just to see.
The 7-11 was jarring--bright fluorescent lights, am radio, jocks shouting out news and weather over some thumping beat, the cash register lady big and loud, the smell of hot dogs and nacho cheese--an alien planet.
Home again, monitoring my belly for noise, movement, pain. . . . I pour a new cup of coffee and use the non-organic milk as creamer.
I must be practical, not romantic. Rather than moping, I need to look after my money. CD rates are above five percent in some banks. I think that maybe the markets are going to do well as the jobs report was positive and tech is bouncing back with the emergence of commercial AI. So, if I say that, you know. . . I'm an indicator. If I put more money back into the market, it is sure to crash. Perhaps I should warn my friends. I need to look, though, and see what yield low risk mutual funds gave last year and measure that against the five percent. I need to think about these things.
I should not have tasted that coffee.
Perhaps part of my sadness/depression comes from my disabilities. I walked hard and fast on the exercise trail yesterday for three miles. The further I went, the better my stride. I was even able to do a few jumping jacks. But I looked the fool from the Museum of Silly Walking. I want to run. I want to run. I want to run.
This morning, my knee is hurting.
I'm going to have to decide about my knee. This, I think, might be what is putting the halt on my romanticism. It is, perhaps plunging me into depression. I am giving up on "my own true love" bullshit.
I have been distracted here by a text from a writing prof about an article she read by Richard Russo descrying a writer for his "macho, romantic self-pity."
Guilty! But I employ the other, more Dostoyevskian, despairing, self-loathing self pity as well.
So, yea, I slept away the past three days in a sad/depressed/lifeless stupor.
But the music was nice.
Today, I promise myself to do something. I may even take some pictures.
All dependent on the botulism thing. TBD.