Death's The Drawback

We live in an over 55 community.

People die here. A lot.

Been on a strange run since right around Christmas. Four people have died. The most recent being our next door neighbor Ivan on April 15. A good day to die if you owe the government.

Not sure if he's #4 or #5, but it is a definite epidemic.

This one hits a little closer to home. We knew the guy, talked to the guy, he was on the board with Carol. Wasn't very old but he got sick.

They had it tough. Owned a restaurant that went down the tubes during Covid. Then Ivan had serious health issues and couldn't work, so his wife was forced to work part time in Market Basket. They were struggling financially. Then Ivan got pneumonia a month or two ago and it did him in.

Life will do that to you sometimes. I hope they found some happiness somewhere.

The homes here are close together. Never thought I could live like this, I like my privacy, but now I don't even think about it. My recliner sits right next to a picture window that looks out on Ivan's and his wife's home. At first we used to drop the blinds at night because their kitchen window looks right into our living room. When she was washing dishes she was looking right at me.

After a while it didn't matter. I'm never naked. The blind stays up.

Our home is so close to theirs I could reach out and grab a beer from their fridge without leaving my recliner. Pretty convenient.

It makes this death more personal. We knew their rhythms. Now the rhythm has changed. The lights go on at a different time, they go off at a different time. Now she is alone, coping or mourning or suffering or crying. Trying to make sense of it. I'm sure she's in a state of shock.

We keep wondering what she is doing, what she is thinking, what she is feeling. What is it like in that house all alone? It hasn't even been a week. When you spend a lifetime with someone, their absence is crushing.

Death is a fact of life here and it is strange because it preys on your mind. Everyone downplays it, doesn't make too much about it, because we are all in line. When will the fucking Reaper point his bony finger at our house, your house, that house? Who will be next?

Brings to mind the Townes Van Zandt song - Waitin' Around To Die: "But I guess I'll keep a-gamblin', lots of booze and lots of ramblin', but it's easier than just a-waitin' around to die". Seems like that's what we should be doing.

Ivan's death is another reminder, indeed a harsh one, a wake up call, a slap in the face and a loud voice yelling "Love your wife, love your husband, don't treat them like a piece of furniture. If you have love in your life, worship at the altar with reverence."

For the past 100 years Friday night has been junk food night for me and Carol. We got away from that this winter because it's hard to venture out with 24 feet of snow on the ground and temperatures 15 degrees below zero.

Last night I ran out to snag junk food. A little thing, a very little gesture, but I felt like we needed it, deserved to treat ourselves. Felt like we had to get back up on that horse.

Turns out it was a quasi summer night, I had the car windows down and the radio blasting, feeling pretty damn good. Got me an Italian sub with hot stuff on it - it was spectacular. Carol dug her sub as well. Watched Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy as we ate. Talked a little, laughed a little. Whined because the Red Sox game was on fucking Apple TV and we don't get Apple TV.

It was a night.

Part of me wants to be in a raucous bar sippin' whiskey and digging on the blues. Part of me is happy to be home with Carol eating subs and watching game shows. I get to do both.

I was happy not to be Ivan last night.

Requiescat in pace, Ivan.

Weirdos Are Us

No one is normal, it just looks that way from across the street.

Like a Bat Out of Hell

Fear of 80 does not give you license to stop living at 72.

In fact, the spectre of 80 looming should supercharge the necessity for laughs NOW.

Better get your fucking ass in gear, baby.

This Would Be A Big Help

I need to find some artistic space where I can scream my fucking head off and say fuck you to the world so I can feel a sense of freedom.

Raise A Glass

If you don't have money in the bank at this moment in this country, and I'm talking about a massive pile of money, then you are a helpless kitten whose mother has abandoned you.

You are crying for someone to give you milk because you are fucking starving. But nobody's going to help you, nobody's going to give you milk, nobody's going to give you anything, nobody's going to help you out at all. In fact, they are actively working to destroy you.

You are on your own and you will suffer.

Cheers to the death of humanity.

Am I Insane?

The other night I was up until 1:30 in the morning watching Waiting For Guffman.

Would you do that?

Where You Gonna Go, Monkey Joe? (Ode To The Lost)

What are you looking for?

Too late for redemption, don't you think? Ten tons of regret is a bit much to get out from under, and karma would probably sabotage the effort anyway.

Self-actualization. You can't deal with everyone else until you deal with you. Enemies outside, an enemy within. But the walls you built are high and wrapped in barbed wire. Words that haunt: "When there's no enemy within, the enemy outside can do you no harm."

Where you gonna go, Monkey Joe?

Absolute truth. Too pure - it would kill you. An enormous shock to the system, because your soul is buried under a mountain of pretense. Safer to stay the ragged course.

Respect. That is laughable. You have to earn respect, but time is short and you are weak. Condescending opinions of you are set in stone, and reinforced by you every day, in every conversation and every situation. Trapped in your own sorrowful performance.

Pick another battle.

Happiness. Not when you're living someone else's life while yearning for your own. The most you can hope for is submission.

Where you gonna go, Monkey Joe?

Peace of mind. Noble. Also, unattainable, when you rail against your reality with every breath you take.

Love. It's there for the taking, there are people who love you. Don't you know? You take that love and twist it into something less, staring through a distorted lens. You are a starving dog, too beat down to crawl to a bowl of food two feet away.

Health. Who gives a shit.

Self-esteem. You have to know yourself to love yourself. It's much easier to hate the stranger you are.

Where you gonna go, Monkey Joe?

All the roads are closed.