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Sharon is in Las Vegas, Walt, and a week of bachelorhood looms
ahead of me. Maybe that is too strong. "Loom" sounds kind of
menacing. How about a week of bachelorhood stretches out before
me like...a tundra of aimless wandering? Or waivers in the distance
like a mirage. Or hunkers unmanifest in the mind as a challenge to
my undernourished positive outlook. Who will laugh at my jokes?
Not the dogs. They double teamed me this morning. Even Charlie,
with the advanced neuropathy in his hind legs, managed to get his
front paws up on my chair as best he could in order to participate in
the harassment of food guy. They insisted that my food duty should
trump my temporary morning stupor and that I should drag myself
out of the chair and feed them. I did.
Now I have locked them out of the bedroom, and after a period of
wandering around and sniffing and staring at the bedroom door, they
have retired to their little portable doggie beds at my feet where my
lounge chair is placed to give me a full view of the majestic Mohave
Valley, in case my spirit should want to soar.
It is weekend quiet on our side of the hill this morning, not even
the occasional hiss of cars going by so far. Sunday. The day of "give
it a rest". Turn loose the nagging concerns, the intrusive thoughts.
Be here now, and all that.
I must amend my previous goal of having every day be Saturday. I
am thinking now every day should be more like Sunday. And why
not? Not in terms of doing no work ever, not on any day, but rather
going about activity in a Sunday frame of mind each day. I'll have to
work that out, as I have many well-documented problems concerning
my relationship with work, pretty much all stemming from my lazy
nature. I even have trouble saying the word “work”, like Maynard G.
Krebbs did.
Yet the keyboard does not seem like work to me. For the
majority of people, writing is less preferable than, say, having
one's teeth pulled. Looked at in that way, maybe I'm not so lazy
after all. On the other hand, there does not seem to be anything
obviously useful in my pastime. There is no credit entry for "writing"
in the profit accounting system of an amateur, unless there is a
suspense account where such things are held for a ticket purchase
on Judgment Day, or maybe the bottom line is not "profit" at all, but
"happiness", as in Bhutan.
So this week I will pretend to be a displaced Bhutanese journalist,
deported for adding to their nearly non-existent national debt of
unhappiness. (Bhutan actually has no port, being landlocked, so they
just gave me a bus ticket).
But I am not an unhappy person, or a happy one either for that
matter. Well, that's not quite true. I'm both happy and unhappy, but
only at times. Like the other day when I dropped a cup in the kitchen
and snatched it out of the air at knee level, keeping it from smashing
on the floor. What a feat! Averting that disaster made me feel
genuine pleasure for awhile. But only for a short while. And recently
I bought a drip valve for the patio that was the wrong size, and the
Home Depot is like a twelve mile round trip, which is not all that bad,
but when I get back with the right one I will probably find something
else that doesn't fit and have to go back again. These kind of things
make me unhappy. But only for a short while. The rest of the time I
am neither happy nor unhappy, I'm just kind of "there", wherever
that is. This is especially so when I am alone, for it is in the
presence of others that I am motivated to appear happy, regardless
of my true state. It is just good manners. So, I'll be in emotional
limbo for many days to come, unless someone comes over or I
manage to save another cup.
Lilly is on my lap now as I type. Soon I will have to disturb her to go
do the kitchen thing...in a Sunday sort of way, of course.