And of course, before anything else, you want the health report. A partly cloudy morning gave way to a bright and sunny afternoon followed by dangerous evening storms. I could explain, but should I? A writer has to make decisions. I learned that from watching "Wonder Boys."
It hurt. Everything did, so I went slowly. My health and wellbeing have declined over the past months as I spend most of my time with my mother and other patients in medical buildings. I've always known that if you spend all your time with hillbillies, that is what you will look like. That is why, as soon as I could once I came back to live in this town, I moved to the Boulevard. I still look like a hillbilly, but less so. More so now, maybe. But that is not my point. You can't be truly well if you spend all your time with sick people. Now you might query, "What about doctors? What about nurses?" My answer can only be an astonished, "I don't know how they do it." I don't know about nurses, but statistically, doctors don't live as long as the general public. Maybe I'll research nurses later. But. . .. and here's the difference. . . they don't spend ALL their time with sick people. They do it in shifts. And doctors spend very little time with patients anymore. At least not specialists. They have PAs to do all that work.
My shifts are 20-24 hours long, 7 days a week. It is almost all I do.
My walk was a tremendous thing, however. I walked down the Boulevard. It was quite lively. All the sidewalk tables were full, people eating and drinking and laughing. I stopped in shops to look for new glassware and found some lovely gold rimmed coupe glasses that I will go back and buy this week. I slipped into the bookstore. I meandered over to the North Pasture to look at the Cabs and Cows setup. As I looked through the fencing meant to keep the little people out, I saw a tent with "VIP Lounge" proudly stenciled on. I knew that I would never go to an event with a VIP section unless I was in it. To pay $275 for a ticket and still be little people. . . nope. I'm either in or out. I'm not going just to swell the crowd.
Again, I don't know how people do it.
At one time, I was in. Now, I'm out. Hillbilly, full cycle.
By the time I got home, my hips and back and right knee were killing me, but I was feeling much, much better than I had. A little sunshine and a little meandering on the Boulevard had put me back into a living frame of mind.
I decided I felt well enough to try another gel plate transfer. I got everything ready--gel plate, acrylic paints, transfer paper, and brayers, and took it all out to the deck. I lay everything out on the big glass table, took a deep breath, and dove in.
Nope. WTF?
I think I now know what I did wrong. I'll give it another shot today.
I threw some clothes into the wash and took a long hot shower. Washed my hair. Felt squeaky clean. Used potions and lotions and unguents on my face and neck and arms and legs. I was beginning to look less cadaverish.
I needed to drive the Xterra, and I needed new running/walking shoes, and REI, I thought, was having a sale. When I got there, I reached for my. . . oops. I'd left my wallet in the other car. It turned out to be o.k. though. I didn't like the look of any of the Hokas and they were not on sale at all. I wasn't tempted to pay $175 for a pair of ugly shoes.
I wandered around the store. The place was full of healthy, pretty people, outdoor people. They were hikers, runners, kayakers, bikers. They looked fit.
I was getting depressed limping around the store. I had been one of them my whole life. I could barely walk the Boulevard any longer. I was going to have to get a new knee. Maybe more.
But the day was lovely and I was happyish nonetheless. I drove slowly home in my fixed up Xterra, power steering, a.c., battery and starter, and oil, too. It was purring. I only wished it had a bluetooth stereo.
"We can't have everything we want, now, can we?"
Back home, shoeless, I switched the clothes from the washer to the dryer and sat down at the big computer. The phone rang. It was in the kitchen. I couldn't jump up and run to get it. It was a slow, torturous rise and limp, but I made it just in time.
"Hello."
"Where are you? I'm just sitting here. I can't get the t.v. to work. I don't have anything to do."
"What do you want for dinner?"
"I don't want anything. I just ate some cottage cheese and pineapple. When are you coming back?"
I didn't want to go to the grocers and then cook for myself. I wanted to get something from the Italian restaurant, but that would take too long. Shit, piss, fuck, sonofabitch, goddamn.
I ended up buying some "healthy" frozen meals. They tasted like lightly seasoned cardboard. Only the Negroni was good. Before I had dinner, I made one and sat outside. I had "fixed" my mother's t.v. blues, but she followed me out. We sat. She told me about her day. I could feel myself collapsing internally. It was a beautiful evening. My friends would be preparing for a big Saturday night. Even a little one sounded great. I was in for another evening of t.v. with my mother under the big fluorescent light. Dark by six. . . a long night ahead.
I felt broken completely.
So. . . there is that. At nine-thirty I took drugs and went to bed.
Oh. . . I did take photos on my walk. Nothing good. I will walk again today, a gentle comeback. I don't have a lot left to come back with.
I wish I had something else to tell you. I really do. I wish I could tell you tales of romance and adventure. Oh, sure, it would be bragging, and I would try to mitigate that with self-deprecation. We've been down that highway before. But it would at least be more colorful a tale.
I really do need to start writing pure fiction here, but there is no way I could crank out a story every day.
That's me in the illustration above. No, not the juggler. That little clown in the background looking on.
Ho!
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