He's Talking About Me Again

Marc Maron:

"My brain is full of psychic tendrils all looking to grab hold of something to worry about, and they're relatively successful at finding stuff. Every day I have to go through the process of getting each one of them to let go, and there's a lot of them and I gotta do it separately, it's a fucking nightmare. It all breaks down to fear. And the other element is just some poorly parented part of myself wants parents, wants to be comforted, even with bullshit."

I sleep like shit, kind of. I mean, I got the CPAP thing going, and for quite a while now it's been giving me high marks. Five or below. Five is the goal so technically I'm doing pretty good. But I wake up tired. What the fuck? Like everything else in life, CPAP helps, but it is not the divine solution they make it out to be. There's always a fucking catch, baby.

I wake up a couple of times a night, but I fall back asleep pretty quickly. Still, there's disruption. My goal is to wake up wake up at 7:00. That seems to be the point where I feel fairly decent. The catch is, that rarely happens. I'm more likely to wake up around 5 or 5:30, and then I'm screwed. The brain starts humming. Psychic tendrils on the hunt.

Three, four, five things (or more) to worry about bounce around my skull. I deep breathe, try the mantra thing, nothing stops the monster from torturing me. Next thing you know I'm up feeding the cats.

And yawning.

Marc's a little more detail oriented than me. I don't go through the process of dealing with each worry. I just let them pile up until they blend into one heavy-duty WORRY, until I have a five hundred pound weight on my chest making it very difficult to breathe.

Fear is definitely in the equation. I'm afraid this will happen, afraid that will happen, afraid I will never change, afraid I'll lose my looks (kidding, for Christ sake - lighten up). Not sure about the poorly parented thing (although Tony and Revia and I definitely did not see eye to eye); I'm not sure I'm still reacting to that. But I definitely yearn for comfort.

Every morning, every night, when Patsy's in my lap, I wish my whole day could feel like this. It is perfect. The sweet sensitivity, love and comfort - the overwhelming feeling of sweet innocence and trust, the purity of the moment. Instead, once I start moving, it's nothing but razor blades.

I'm getting much better at not giving a fuck though, and that is progress. It helps. For the longest time - years - I spent every off day obsessing about how I'm going to make a million dollars to buy me some peace of mind and safety. Now I go days without doing anything about it.

I mean, who cares? It's too late. I'm doomed to pay the price for my mistakes so I might as well just roll the dice and hope I get five or ten years of status quo before it all comes crashing down.

It would be nice if I could sleep soundly for those five or ten years. 

I'd rather not wait until I'm dead.

The Wisdom of Drunkenness

Just washed the dishes from last night and this morning.

I volunteered to do it. I try to help Carol out. She washes the dishes a lot and gets sick of it (even though she is 100% retired).

I get it. I get pissed off every time I do it even though I volunteer to do it. It is annoying.

It occurred to me as I stood at the sink that I understand why drunks avoid everyday chores.

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.