"Don't Beat Me Anymore. . . ."

To revisit such a scene, quiet, moody, melancholy and contemplative.  Beautiful.  Again, created from one of my photos, but I don't think the photo was as good as the illustration.  I need to find a way to transfer those colors to the photos.  These are not photographic colors, and I like them much better.  

But this is not my life nor never again will be, so I fear.  I live like a shut in boy, kind and serving, but at the beck and call of his mother, living in her abode without anything reflecting his own personality, nothing of texture or substance.  The few hours I get away each day are full of chores.  The times I've gotten to my house have been stressful.  Perhaps some of that stress now has been relieved by the work of the house repairman, and just maybe in my minutes or hour there I will be able to pretend I live at home again.  But there is still a lot of work to do on my part, so the time for relaxing and thinking seems too distant.  

I take my mother to two appointments today.  First, an echocardiogram.  The office called yesterday.  They had a cancellation, so I jumped on the offer.  Then we will be back to my mother's house for lunch before we go to get her hearing aids.  After that, I will sneak away for an hour at the gym and then the shopping for groceries before I come back to her house to prepare the evening meal.  

Lately, I've just been making up dinner recipes.  Last night, I made brown jasmine rice.  While that was cooking, I heated some tofu on the stove.  I heated some peas, and when the rice was ready, I put it and the peas into the pan with the tofu, then mixed in four eggs.  I stirred it all together, the tofu breaking into smaller and smaller pieces.  I plated the goulash and topped it with Sriracha.  What would I call that?  Oh. . . it was easy to eat and good, but next time I will sauté onions and garlic and green pepper to add in.  I will certainly make it again some meatless evening.

Fascinated?  

Nope.  

Fascists are checking out my blog again to see if I am doing something outside the bounds of human decency.  They simply call it "regulations."  I'll be reported to the "proper authorities" soon enough and the whole enterprise will be "disappeared" into a bleak re-education camp where I will be taught the errors of my ways.  I will beg them to help me.  I will tell them of the voodoo curse from which I've suffered.  I will ask them to return me to my innocent ways before the world had corrupted me.  

"I'll be good, boss.  I won't try to run away no more,"

But I’d rather be in that quiet, beautiful room, the one bathed in those impossible colors no photograph ever caught—sitting with music and the a loving moon and my own true thoughts about love and beauty and the melancholy sadness of things.