My buddy, the detective novel writer, stopped by my house yesterday while I was there with the workers. He's a friendly guy and I like him a bunch. Long ago, I produced an award winning documentary that featured him as the primary informant voice. Little Q directed the hour long project. I've known the guy to some degree for a mighty long time.
"What's your email address. I want to send you something."
I wondered what it could be since we were standing eyeball to eyeball and he was telling me nothing. He writes columns for magazines, too, mostly about food and wine, so I figured it would somehow be connected to that.
Later in the day, I got the email. It was an invitation to his Substack page. It invited me to like and subscribe. I could read for free, it said, but. . . .
A fellow's got to make money, I guess, but I was a little. . . I don't know. He could have just said give me four dollars a month or something when we were talking.
Substack is huge. Many of the good writers of the day now have Substack pages. I read some excellent writing there. Some of it mine. But given what has been happening in my life this year, I've not really had the time to keep posting. If I get cancelled here, though, that is where I will go. I actually have readers there who have offered me subscription money to "keep me writing." I have been, however, reticent to take it. Unless I know I can sustain the thing, I feel I'd be defrauding them.
I'm that kind of guy.
But there is not censorship on the Substack site. My god. . . you can't believe some of the things I have seen there. I guess they have algorithms, too.
Substack is only going to get bigger. Trust me.
My life is not getting any better. I am taking my mother back to the E.R. this morning. She's in terrible pain. She can't sleep. She needs relief. I tell her that the E.R. is going to do the same thing they did last time. They will get her blood pressure down and give her morphine which will alleviate the pain for a bit, then they will give her the option of going to a rehab facility or going home and dealing with things on her own.
So one more cup of coffee, and then I'll spend the day in an E.R. room again.
Yesterday, I washed down the floor and walls in the little cubby in the kitchen that holds the washer and dryer. It was hotter than hell in there with the a.c. off. I went to the paint store and for once the grumpy guy who works there was nice to me. He helped me out, told me stories, said it was nice to see me. He must have started taking meds. The carpenter had a helper and got a lot of work done. He is going to come back today to get more of the outside of the house closed up. I was going to paint the walls so we could move the washer and dryer back in.
That ain't going to happen. It is depressing. I am not able to sleep with my mother roaming the halls all night long. I am feeling very ill now. My body is buzzing with fatigue and unhappiness. But I'll have to get used to it, for it looks like this thing is going to play out for a long, long time. Backs are not something easily fixed. If they could fix backs, a lot of players would still be in the NBA. But my mother has to get some relief. Her misery is terrible.
And so, what I had planned to write today will have to wait. As soon as she is ready, we will away.
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