Back at Mom's

Back at mom's.  I won't say more.  

Sure.  Of course I will.  

I made dinner at five.  Then what?  What to do with the remains of the day?  Trapped, I turned on t.v. but couldn't gain interest in anything.  At six and six-thirty we watched the news.  The NCAA tournament came on--Duke vs. St. Mary's.  I'd watch that. 

I couldn't.  I can't watch the commercials, and muting the t.v. every few seconds was killing me.  I went to my paid subscriptions, but didn't care for any of it.  I got on my little laptop.  It irritated me, too.  Mom went to bed and I took a cup of tea outside and sat for awhile.  At nine-thirty I went to bed.  

I got up and did the exact same things I do every morning, but somehow the ritual felt mechanical and irritating.  Why?  What's the difference?  

I can't imagine what it must be like to be held in prison.  It must be cruel and unusual, but despite what people may say, most punishments are.  They are meant to be.  Nobody renders a fun and happy punishment.  There is no deterrent in that.  But taking away all personal items and putting a person in the blandest, blankest, most depressing environment is certainly cruel and unusual.  

"He's a good son."

 That's what they say. 

"You're riding high in April and seriously shot down in May."

That makes no sense, but it popped into my mind right away.  Rhyme, I guess.  You know whose line that is, right?

I need to make breakfast for my mother, so I won't belabor you with any more.  Saturday.  No Kings Day.  I should find a rally.  

I just want to take pictures.