POOKIE’S ADVENTURES: So Long 2023. You Were Merely a Whimper Before the Storm.

“What happens, stays happened.”

Pratchett, Terry. Thief of Time: A Novel of Discworld (p. 298). HarperCollins.  

A few days ago, it rained. Unlike the usual mist that often passes for rain here in the Enchanted Forest, actual raindrops fell in our backyard with distinctive splashes. Of course, one could comfortably walk between the drops, but it was indeed genuine rain. The rain was accompanied by two flashes of lightning and some rumbles of thunder. Naida was startled by the storm’s fury, while I, on the other hand, was a bit disappointed that the so-called storm was not accompanied by the earth-shattering cracks of thunder and lightning that used to shred the sky of my youth. Like most old-timers, I miss the good old days.

The worst of my cold or flu seems to have passed, leaving me with just an occasional cough. Naida also appears to be improving, but it seems she’ll need another week or two before it completely subsides. Meanwhile, the news as we enter the holiday season indicates that we are faced with two proxy wars. Vladimir Putin seems to be achieving victory through subterfuge in what he couldn’t win on the battlefield, and the Earth appears to be trying to punish humanity for the damage it has inflicted on the biosphere. It’s the same old story, but as they say, “tomorrow is another day,” and at my age, frankly, I don’t give a damn.

Today is Wednesday, another dark day with wet ground and a grim, grey sky. I’m trying hard to be upbeat, but I must admit, I prefer being a bit grumpy; it suits me better.

It is now Friday afternoon, and I can’t recall what happened on Thursday. However, it’s of no great consequence. In my experience, Thursdays hold little to recommend them, except for the fact that they precede Fridays, when you start pondering your weekend plans. That is, of course, until you retire. Once you retire, every day feels like a Friday, and you find yourself wondering what maladies you will be forced to put up with in the next few days.

Last night, I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to get up around 2:30 AM and dive into the Christmas present George sent me. It’s a book by Christopher Brookmyre titled “Quite Ugly One Morning.” It’s a mystery novel that falls in the tradition of Carl Hiassen, Caim McDonnell, and Declan Burke—slightly over the top and genuinely amusing.

[Y]ou don’t need a southern accent and a pick-up truck to be a redneck. You also don’t need a brain to be a gun-owner.

                Brookmyre, Christopher. Quite Ugly One Morning (p. 58). Grove Atlantic.

I read the book until 5 AM before finally returning to sleep. I woke up around noon, and my first order of business was to schedule Naida’s doctor’s appointment and set up one for myself as well. Afterward, I indulged in my customary late afternoon nap.

While I was napping, Naida took the dog for an extended walk, and she didn’t return until well after dark. I couldn’t help but worry about how this might affect her illness. On the other hand, I know that some exercise is always beneficial, advice that I should probably take to heart. She came back, panting and coughing quite a bit.

Couldn’t sleep again that night. Resumed reading the book until four in the morning. There was an interesting riff on surgeons and their psychopathology.

It is now Saturday December 23rd two days before Christmas. Today is Festivus a made-up holiday from the television show Seinfeld that has become an actual holiday for some. Here are the five rules or components of celebrating Festivus:

    The Festivus Pole: Instead of a decorated Christmas tree, Festivus is symbolized by an unadorned aluminum pole. It’s meant to be a stark contrast to the commercialism of the holiday season.

The Airing of Grievances: During the Festivus dinner, participants take turns airing their grievances and complaints about each other. This is an opportunity to express any grievances or annoyances from the past year.

The Feats of Strength: After the Airing of Grievances, the head of the household challenges one of the guests to a physical feat of strength. Festivus is not considered over until the head of the household is pinned in a wrestling match. 

The Festivus Dinner: Like many holidays, Festivus includes a family dinner.

Festivus Miracles: Participants may also keep an eye out for “Festivus miracles,” which are seemingly random, everyday occurrences that are seen as special during Festivus.

I hope you all enjoyed your Festivus. It is also NATIONAL PFEFFERNUSSE DAY in Germany where the celebrate pfeffernüsse a fluffy cookie made with ground nuts and spices and covered in powdered sugar. It is also National Roots Day when families are encourage to delve into their family history, heritage, and ancestry.

Christmas Eve once again, and I found myself immersed in a night of reading. There’s something special about being alone in the dark and engrossed in a novel that brings a unique depth to your life experiences. However, the downside is that you often miss out on the early morning hours. But, at my age, mornings aren’t the most exciting part of the day. Nevertheless, there’s nothing quite as delightful as a cup of coffee and a toasted bagel with cream cheese and gravlax, whether it’s at 7:30 AM or noon. The key is to savor it when you’re fully awake.

As for the book, I was transported to Edinburgh, Scotland. The hero emerged victorious, although not without a fair share of bloodshed – and yes, some passionate moments too, though not nearly as much as the blood. It was merely hinted at as the bedroom door closed on the hero and the aging ingenue in the final sentence of the novel. It was indeed a fantastic way to spend the hours from midnight to 3 AM on Christmas Eve in 2023.

Later, I took the dog for a walk. It marked the first time in over three weeks that I was able to complete our walk without needing to rest on every bench we passed. When we’re younger and recover from an illness, we often eagerly return to our routines. However, at my age, we simply realize that we’ve just grown older and and still waiting to see what happens next.

Tomorrow Christmas Day will be quiet one for Naida and me. Many of her family with whom we usually spend the holiday with are down with COVID or one of the flu varieties ravaging the country.

Christmas morning began with me waking up to Naida announcing, “I’ve steamed your bagels. They seemed hard, so I steamed them.” This Christmas story will undoubtedly be remembered for both its fame and infamy. It achieved fame because it serves as proof that in life, there’s always something unexpected. As for its infamy, well, have you ever tried to toast a soggy bagel?

After our bagel breakfast, Naida and I discussed how we would distribute Christmas presents to her family. This was a significant question, as most of them live nearby, and almost all of them, including Naida and myself, had come down with some dread disease, making in-person celebrations and gift exchanges unwise. This situation differs from my family’s, where everyone lives at a distance from each other, making in-person festivities impractical. Nevertheless, we decided to drive over to her daughter’s homes, leaving our presents outside their doors while picking up their gifts for us, also left by their doors. As far as I’m concerned, this is shaping up to be a wonderful Christmas so far.

Well, alas the Niners lost badly. So it was not that good of a Christmas.

Later that night, when I couldn’t sleep, I went downstairs and with the help of Mister AI wrote the following sonnet to Naida about our time together this Christmas:

In our twilight years, by Christmas’s sweet grace,

At eighty-four, in Naida’s warm embrace,

Like seasoned oaks, our hearts together find,

In love’s sweet song, our souls forever bind.

With snowy hair, our laughter fills the air,

Your smile, so dear, beyond compare,

In wrinkled hands, our fingers gently lace,

A testament to our enduring grace.

Though time has etched its lines on life’s grand stage,

With you by my side, we turn each page,

Each Christmas Day, in your love’s warm array,

My heart’s light will stay, come what may.

So hand in hand, as life’s sweet chapters roll,

With you, my love, I’ve found my heart’s true goal.

The following morning I got out of bed at about noon, After breakfast, we listened to some Louie Armstrong — Chloe, Mac the knife and others. I had promised myself last night I would get some work done today. There could be worse things than failing to achieve ones goals. Pleasant lethargy has its merits. Where would we be without Louie Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald? Well, Frankie also.

Naida sitting next to me singing along with Frank’s version  of “It Had To Be You,” suddenly turned to me and exclaimed, “I can sing again.”  Let’s hope our flu month is over.

We just listened to Jimmy Durante’s “Make someone Happy.” He did.

Damn, Durante was followed to Frank’s version of “The Birth Of The Blues.” It’s like having an hour long orgasm. After this I will have to go upstairs and rest.

Later, we spent the afternoon listening to the music of Turlough O’Carolan, the great 18th-century blind Irish harpist who lived through the period of oppression when the English declared playing the harp to be a capital offense in an effort to suppress Irish culture, much as they did with Celtic culture in Scotland. O’Carolan even attended the last gathering of Irish harpists in Belfast, and thanks to his remarkable memory, some of the ancient music from that time continues to survive today. Patrick Bell, who plays Carolan’s music, is a modern performer of the Irish harp and a storyteller. Naida and I saw his performance in Mendocino a few years ago. Alas, once again, the work I had planned to do today remained undone. Meanwhile, 2023 continues to stoically progress towards its end.

On Tuesday, we were not feeling well and feared a relapse. In the evening, we watched “Maestro,” Bradley Cooper’s opus about Leonard Bernstein. While it may not be ranked among the greatest movies ever made, it is nonetheless marvelous. It will revolutionize the way biographical movies are made. Some critics have complained that it should have focused on his music, creativity or humanitarian activities rather than the realities of his life. That would be the conventional approach in biographical movies, where the character’s accomplishments are often embellished with a mostly fictionalized personal crisis that they overcome. While there was plenty of Bernstein’s music in the film, it prominently showcased Bernstein’s personal demons.

Back when I was in college in the late 1950s and early 1970s, I used to hang out with a diverse group of Jewish and Italian-American students, most of whom lived in Manhattan. They were all quite athletic, assertive, and brilliant, with many having graduated from the Bronx High School of Science. What attracted me most to this group was their knowledge and passion for classical music and opera. We would often spend our time together, enjoying beer and singing opera. We even had a game where one of us would sing a snippet of an opera, and the others would try to guess which opera it came from. Two members of the group knew Bernstein quite well and described him and his sexual escapades as far more assertive than portrayed in the film.

I loved New York during that era. From the mid-1950s until the 1980s, it was the epicenter of the world, especially in the realm of music. The influx of refugees from Eastern Europe contributed to a renaissance of classical music, in which Bernstein played a significant role. And then there was jazz. I would visit jazz clubs alone as often as I could. After I became an attorney, I would stop by the Ember’s restaurant, which was near my office, once or twice a week to have a drink or dinner and listen to Oscar Peterson. He sat at his piano on a platform above the bar, playing some of the sweetest music around. Those were truly good times.

The next day, I drove to the Sutter Health complex for one of the many health examinations and procedures that seem to occupy much of my waking hours now. This time it was for my heart. The technician informed me that the process, which would take about three hours or so, would simulate a fake heart attack to determine if a real one was imminent. That did not fill me with confidence. They injected some radioactive materials into me, and I was surrounded by various machines to record the effects. After the exam, I found myself pondering why so much time, effort, and money were being expended on me and other decrepits like me, solely so that we could return home and watch television all evening.

Since I had not been allowed to eat for 24 hours prior to the procedure, on my way home, I stopped for lunch at my favorite Czech-Italian restaurant (in fact, the only one around). I had a caprese salad and some spaghetti Aglio e Olio, which I washed down with a good Czech lager. That evening, we continued watching more episodes of “Universe,” narrated by Morgan Freeman. During the night, my sleep was disturbed by dreams of heart attacks and by pains in my right arm.

The following morning, which was a Friday, the house cleaner arrived. As we had become somewhat indifferent to housekeeping, the house cleaner’s appearance was a welcome relief. It allowed us to enjoy our coffee and watch “The View” without too much regret. Regarding the challenges of aging, George shared an article by Rupert Brooks from The Atlantic that had a thought-provoking piece of information:

“When Americans were asked in 2009 what ‘being old’ means, the most popular response was turning 85. Yet the average lifespan in the United States in 2022 was only 76. Apparently, then, the average American dies nine years before reaching old age.”

(You can read the full article here: https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2023/12/happiness-time-aging-mood/676964/?gift=ZQb7QPALswyGdo9MKPYBj4RYknaaBMPm4RQKUIPcsGM)

The day after tomorrow is New Year’s Eve, and 2023 comes to an end. In my opinion, it was neither distinguished nor memorable. It did signify, however, that my generation was approaching its end. We didn’t accomplish as much as we had hoped, but the music was great. Moreover, that day also marks something unique, which may never come around again – the last day of the year is 12/31/23 — 123123.

Today, I indulged in a leisurely morning, staying in bed well into the afternoon. After finally rising, I spent a few hours perusing the internet voraciously, akin to a ravenous wolf who had not eaten for days. Later in the day, Naida and I watched some TV before retiring to bed around 9:30 in the evening.

The following day marked New Year’s Eve, and I woke up around 11 AM, feeling refreshed after what seemed like a restful night’s sleep. Following breakfast, Naida shared with me one of her reports from her doctoral studies in sociology, conducted sometime during the late 1970s or early 1980s. She had been a brilliant student, specializing in women’s studies well before it gained widespread recognition. However, the responsibilities of marriage, motherhood, and the enduring gender bias faced by women pursuing professional careers led her to forgo that path in favor of becoming an accomplished author of historical novels.

In her report, she critiqued the anthropologists and sociologists of her time who condemned the treatment of women in African tribal cultures. She highlighted the contrast between Western European culture, where women had been deprived of their economic power, and many African tribes, where such power was preserved. For instance, in one cattle-based economy tribe, men owned the cattle but were prohibited from milking them. This meant that women retained crucial economic power, enabling them to negotiate with men. In Western European culture, it could be argued that women of the upper and bourgeois classes had, over the centuries, been stripped of any independent economic influence, other than their perceived value in matrimony. Women who managed to free themselves from this economic and political oppression were rare and truly deserving of recognition and acclaim.

We spent the remainder of the day watching television and sibling on snacks. I read a little more of “Touch” a fascinating mystery novel by Clare North that was one of the Christmas presents my daughter Jessica sent me. Then at about 10PM or so, we went upstairs to sleep and slept our way into 2024.

On the first day of the 2024, after Naida and I pleasantly greeted the new year, I got out of bed at about noon. For about an hour, Naida regaled me with stories of old Idaho, when men were men and women were chattel and adolescent boys dreamed of sheep. I then went downstairs for breakfast and wondered about the significance of having breakfast at that time of day, but not for long. And so the new year begins.

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POOKIE’S ADVENTURES AS HE RUMBLES INTO 2023.

“You don’t know you’re in a story until someone tells it to you afterward.”

                Williams, Tad. Into the Narrowdark (Last King of Osten Ard) (p. 406). DAW. 

 

 

It is now Tuesday, December 27th. I have just emerged from the funk I’ve been in for the past four days. Naida and I just watched Dick Cavett’s program on PBS, where he discussed his friendship with Groucho Marx. It wasn’t a life-changing work of art, but it was cute, funny, and endearing enough to lift me out of the depression I had fallen into last week.

“Getting older is no problem. You just have to live long enough.”

• Groucho Marx

Speaking of getting older, Billy Crystal once said:

“In your sixties, you have a major surgery, the music is still loud but it doesn’t matter because you can’t hear it anyway. In your seventies, you and your spouse retire to Fort Lauderdale, you start eating dinner at two, lunch around ten, breakfast the night before. And you spend most of your time wandering around malls looking for the ultimate in soft yogurt…”

And in your eighties, you spend your evenings sitting on the sofa watching Antiques Roadshow.

So, what can I recall from the past four or five days? Well, Saturday was Christmas Eve. During the day, I mostly researched the nation’s federal budget deficit. I had written a relatively popular blog post (among the 10 or so people who read my blog) about which political party was most responsible for the debt based on their control of the presidency. I thought it would be interesting to examine the percentage growth by administration per year and explore the impact of recurring events such as wars, tax reductions, economic crises, and so on, on the deficit.

In the evening, we went to Naida’s daughter Jennifer’s house for Christmas Eve. It was enjoyable. We had a delicious dinner prepared by Jennifer’s French husband, who is a bit of a gourmet. The baked ham was the best I’ve ever tasted, and he also made his own bread, which surpassed anything one could find in a store. We sang Christmas carols and exchanged presents.

On Christmas Day, we did little more than open presents and sit around the house. My grandsons, Anthony and Aaron, bought us a large-screen TV to replace our smaller one. Now we won’t have to get up and move closer to the screen to read the dialogue. The written contemporaneous dialogue box is necessary for us since, even with our hearing aids turned up to the maximum, we often struggle to understand what is being said. This is especially true when the speaker is using British English. As Winston Churchill reputedly said, Britain and the United States are “two nations divided by a common language.”

That evening, Maryann and George arrived after spending a few days with their children and their spouses in the Bay Area. They spent the night with us before leaving in the morning to drive to Carnelian Bay in Lake Tahoe for a few days of snow time with Maryann’s daughter, Katie, and her husband.

After they left on Monday morning, I spent most of the day working on some legal problems for Terry.

Now it’s Wednesday, and I spoke to Hayden this morning. He was really excited about building a larger aquarium than he had ever done before. He also mentioned that he had used the miniature Leatherman multi-tool I had given him for Christmas. He was pleased with it, and he said it was perfect for the small projects he enjoys working on.

Later, I spoke with my cousin Lou Bronico over the phone. He currently resides in Eastchester, NY. Lou, who is two or three years older than me, is my favorite cousin and has always been a spry and good-natured character. Although we have been communicating through email, it has been over fifty years since we last spoke in person. During that time, Lou would periodically send me jokes that he found funny, and some of them actually were. As a pharmacist, perhaps he sampled his own wares now and then, which could account for his perennial good nature. One of the jokes he sent me goes like this:

“Old-Age Problems… Three Elderly Golfers: Three elderly golfers were walking down the fairway. The 60-year-old said, ‘Sixty is the worst age to be. You always feel like you have to pee, and most of the time, nothing happens.’ The 70-year-old replied, ‘Ah, that’s nothing. When you’re 70, you don’t have a bowel movement anymore. You take laxatives, eat bran, sit on the toilet all day, and nothing happens.’ The 80-year-old chimed in, ‘Actually, eighty is the worst age of all.’ The 60-year-old asked, ‘Do you have trouble peeing too?’ The 80-year-old responded, ‘No, I pee every morning at 6:00 am. I pee like a racehorse; no problem at all.’ The 60-year-old asked, ‘Do you have trouble having a bowel movement?’ The 80-year-old replied, ‘No, I have one every morning at 6:30 am.’ Perplexed, the 60-year-old said, ‘Let’s get this straight. You pee every morning at 6:00 am and crap every morning at 6:30 am. So, what’s so tough about being 80?’ The 80-year-old said, ‘I don’t wake up until seven.'”

I often wonder about the person who sends me jokes like that, especially someone like Lou, whose father was one of the engineers involved in developing the Hubble Space Telescope.

One of my earliest memories is when I was still in diapers, playing with Lou and his brother Alex. On that day, I accidentally let out a loud fart. (There may even be a photograph of that legendary event somewhere.) Lou immediately announced to everyone, including my parents and the other adults and children present, that I had farted. I was incredibly embarrassed, and from that day on, I conditioned myself to only release silent farts in public. This commitment remained a significant part of my life until my seventies when I realized that I no longer cared if anyone considered me a smelly old bastard, and I resumed farting as nature intended.

Now Lou and I are planning a trip to Italy together next autumn, assuming we are still alive. I’ll save the fart jokes for when we return.

Afterwards, I went upstairs to prepare for the day. However, as usual, I decided to take a few moments to lie in bed and browse through my phone. Time slipped away, and it was already after 5 PM when I finally returned downstairs for dinner. I spent most of the evening reading the third book in the Bastards of Pizzofalcone series. I promised myself that tomorrow would be a better and more productive day.

Now it’s Sunday, New Year’s Day of 2023. Four days have passed since my last entry. Usually, when there is such a gap, it means a complete blackout in my memory. However, let’s see what fragments I can recall.

I remember nothing about Thursday. On Friday, Naida’s son dropped by and stayed the night before continuing his journey to wherever he was heading next. He had spent one night after Christmas at a nearby Motel 6 but had to leave due to bed bugs. He showed us some welts from their bites. He asked for advice, and I suggested writing negative reviews of the motel on various internet rating sites and filing a complaint with the local health department. I even had the ridiculous idea of searching for attorneys who specialized in bed bug cases. To my surprise, I found a firm right here in Sacramento called Bowman and Associates that proudly claimed expertise in Employment Law, Personal Injury, Family Law, Landlord Tenant, Estate Planning, and Bed Bugs. I attended law school many years ago, and I don’t recall a course in Bed Bug Law. I wonder if something has changed in the education of lawyers over the years. It turns out there are several “bed bug lawyers” in California, with one in Southern California even declaring himself “The World’s #1 Bed Bug Lawyer.” It seems my not-so-lamented profession has become even more insectoid.

Later, my sister Maryann and her husband George dropped by on their way from Tahoe to Richmond to pick up her dog’s feeding bowl, which they had left behind when they spent the night with us a few days ago.

On New Year’s Eve morning, I worked on my memo to the Gogster. At 7 PM, we attended the Nepenthe New Year’s Eve party. Due to heavy rain, we decided to drive there. Most of the attendees were the regulars from the Saturday Morning Coffee, and like Naida and me, they were well beyond their “use by” date. I chatted with a few people, wandered around, and sampled various plates of nibbles placed on the tables (some were quite good). Eventually, we sat down to watch a game they had prepared. Each participant had a sheet of paper resembling a bongo card, with questions in each square. The questions revolved around experiences like living in Campus Commons for over 25 years or having traveled to over 10 countries. The objective was to go around the room, speaking to everyone and finding individuals who had those specific experiences. Naida, of course, finished first. After the game, she continued her usual rounds, smiling and talking to everyone. One woman would occasionally approach her, hug and kiss her, and rub her back, but then she would look at me and scowl. I suppose it’s geriatric homoeroticism of some kind. Later, Naida played the piano, and we all sang along.

Just before 9 PM, we all gathered in front of a large movie screen to watch the TV program from Times Square in New York. It was the perfect solution for us old folks on the West Coast. The ball drops in Times Square, and then we can celebrate and head back home for a good night’s sleep. However, this year was different. For some reason, the networks decided to delay showing the ball drop on the West Coast until midnight. We were all shocked and disappointed. The minutes ticked by in silence, and around seven minutes after nine, someone said, “Well, we might as well… Happy New Year, everyone!” So, we began shouting, kissing, and singing for a while before saying our goodbyes and heading home for a restful night’s sleep. And that’s how Naida and I welcomed the new year of 2023.

On New Year’s Day, I watched the 49ers game, which was a close and exciting match that they won. That’s all I remember about that day. On Tuesday, I recall sleeping for most of the day and receiving the nice coat I had bought for Naida as a Christmas gift. That night, or rather early the following morning, I had a troubling dream.

I am a vivid dreamer, often aware that I’m dreaming and capable of waking myself up if the dream becomes too distressing. In many of my dreams, I find myself facing a group of people, and I have to decide whether to fight or run. I always choose to fight and begin punching and kicking. Sometimes, I even act out the fight physically. There have been occasions when my punches have landed on Naida, but she has learned to recognize the signs—my body shaking and writhing—and wakes me up before I start throwing punches, or she simply moves out of reach. She finds it amusing now.

However, last night’s dream was different. I was much younger in the dream and had gone to the seashore with my friend Dick and our respective girlfriends. We each had separate rooms, and Dick had driven us there in his car. He asked me to make sure I had some money saved so that if he had spent all of his, we could still afford to go back home. The day before we were set to leave, the resort had a peculiar shark performance. Many sharks swam near the shore, and we were able to enter the water and play with them as if they were dolphins. Afterward, when I returned to my room, I found a shark inexplicably present. Strangely, it seemed to be dying from being out of the water for so long. I picked it up and ran out of the motel, across the sand, and back into the water. The shark was heavy, and I could only carry it to the water’s edge before dropping it, with its head in the water and its tail on the sand. It didn’t seem to be reviving. At that moment, my other consciousness—the one that knows I’m dreaming—began laughing, recognizing the erotic symbolism in those images. I thought to myself that I was too old for such things. Suddenly, I was drawn back into the dream as I witnessed the shark I tried to save being viciously attacked and devoured by other sharks. I was horrified and felt utterly helpless.

Later, Dick came by, and we walked onto a bridge that spanned the beach and the water. We eventually sat down on the bridge, and Dick informed me that he had spent all his money and depended on me to have at least $10 left so we could drive home. I quickly checked my pockets but found no money. Dick was distressed. Then someone else joined us, a person I didn’t recognize. Feeling guilty, I checked my pockets again, and this time, I found some money. As I continued searching, I discovered more and more cash until I had to tie it all together with a rubber band into a large bundle. Dick was happy. He said, “Let’s go back,” and he jumped up. In doing so, he unknowingly kicked the bundle of cash off the bridge and into the water. We exclaimed, “Oh my God!” together as we watched the bundle fall. It drifted deeper into the water. Suddenly, Dick jumped off the bridge. We observed him falling, and it took a long time for him to splash down. Meanwhile, the money continued to drift deeper until we couldn’t see it or Dick anymore. We waited and waited, realizing that he had drowned. I began screaming and screaming, but it wasn’t a high-pitched scream as I had expected; instead, it was a low, thunderous growl, each scream lasting one breath. It grew louder and louder until I realized I must be shouting aloud and would wake Naida, so I forced myself to wake up and looked over at her. She was still asleep, snoring softly. The slats on the windows allowed a bit of morning light to filter through. I checked my phone, and it was 7:30 AM. I rolled onto my back and lay there for over an hour, feeling exhausted, terrified, and stunned.

Eventually, I managed to get up and go downstairs to prepare breakfast. Naida and the dog joined me. We sat on the sofa, ate our breakfast, and Naida turned on the TV. We watched the movie “Sophie’s Choice.” I found it rather depressing, but Naida didn’t see it that way. She believed Sophie and her lover had realized their lives were filled with pain, horror, and sadness, and they chose to die together, finding solace in each other’s arms.

On the other hand, I’ve never been a fan of death, regardless of the circumstances. I can understand pain, both giving and receiving, but not death.

Speaking of sharks and for no other reason that to remove it from my overcrowded list of memorable quotations here is one from a series of novels that I believe I enjoyed but remember nothing about.

“A fanciful and unrealistic approach to the laws of probability makes people try their luck in situations that have nothing to do with luck – be it personal relationships or making a quick buck. For this reason, I didn’t gamble in any way, shape or form. To me it was like swimming in a pool half filled with sharks: though the sharks only took up half the pool, it was still their pool:”
               Tuomainen, Antti. The Rabbit Factor (Rabbit Factor Trilogy) (pp. 77-78). Orenda Books.

The day continued, and it was already afternoon. I thought it was time to go back upstairs, get dressed, and face the day, despite its cold, gray, and dismal nature. Later, we lay on the bed for a while. I drifted off while Naida shared stories about the authorship business.

The remainder of Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday are a blur in my memory. I vaguely recall spending most of one of those days on the phone with United Health Care, attempting to find a Primary Care Physician. I also watched several Speaker of the House of Representatives votes, witnessing the Crazy Caucus of the Republican Party extracting concessions from McCarthy and then not voting for him. It seems they have inadvertently pushed moderate Republicans into finding common ground with Democrats. The days outside were dark, rainy, and dismal, so we mostly stayed indoors.

On Thursday, while watching the 9th and 10th Speakership votes and experiencing extreme boredom, I drifted into various states of consciousness, ranging from slack-jawed drooling to barely sentient. At one point, I reflected on the most impressive political leaders I’ve met and spoken with, including Bobby Kennedy, Bill Clinton, Nancy Pelosi, Ann Richards, and Willy Brown. Jerry Brown, whom I consider to be California’s greatest governor, wasn’t as impressive in person or during a dinner conversation, although those encounters were still interesting and amusing. I liked Jimmy Carter, but I found his wife more intriguing. Arnold Schwarzenegger was a self-centered show-off, and Ronald Reagan was a pleasant party guest, but there wasn’t much beyond that.

That night, I had a dream about a movie starring Lana Turner and Jean-Paul Belmondo. I can’t recall many details now on this Friday evening as I write, but it involved them traveling back in time from the present day to the 1940s and 50s and having short, interesting adventures. I enjoyed the dream so much that when I woke up, I immediately wrote down the names Turner and Belmondo so I wouldn’t forget them. I promised myself that I would go downstairs and include the dream in this post. However, I got sidetracked, and now the memory of the dream has vanished. It’s a shame because I’ve always believed that our dreams are as much a part of our life experience as our recollections of waking moments. After all, reality is merely our brain’s interpretation of the energy signals stimulating our nerves.

Today is Friday, and I had my weekly lunch with Hayden, which, as always, was enjoyable. We discussed his future, shared laughter, and ate pizza at Nugget Supermarket. I left him some information about Antioch College, prepared by Barrie, who I believe sits on their board.

Tomorrow morning, we overslept and missed the Saturday Morning Coffee gathering. Naida spent some time playing the piano while I wrote here. However, I haven’t been feeling well today, experiencing a pulsing sensation in my head as if my blood is rushing into my brain. My congenital hypochondria led me to consult the internet to determine the likelihood of still being alive by the end of the day. The search suggested I may be suffering from chronic intracranial hypertension, with symptoms such as a constant throbbing headache that worsens in the morning or when coughing or straining, temporary loss of vision, feeling and being sick, feeling sleepy, feeling irritable, among others. Naturally, after reading this, I convinced myself that I must be suffering from this condition.

Further research indicated possible causes, including hypoparathyroidism (which I have and receive treatment for) and iron deficiency (which I also have but haven’t been consistent in treating with supplements). The article recommended consulting a doctor for tests, but with the complexities of medical insurance at the beginning of the year, finding a new Primary Care Physician quickly is challenging. So, for now, I’ve taken my medication and have enjoyed a shower for its psychological and aesthetic benefits. I even took a nap, which took up more than two hours. Unfortunately, I don’t feel any better than before. I suppose I should move on to other tasks now.

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POOKIES ADVENTURES AT THE START OF THE NEW YEAR (2022):

“Do not race your postcards home. Dally long enough for word of your adventures to arrive before you.Let them announce you and lay the foundation for your legend.”

Bancroft, Josiah. The Fall of Babel (The Books of Babel) (p. 792). Orbit. 

 

 

A few days before the welcome demise of 2021, Nikki and Hayden came by to take Naida and me to lunch. For Nikki’s sake we went to a place nearby called Twin Peaks, a large sports bar featuring a large selection of lagers, various meats and fries, and scantily clothed waitresses. It was a pleasant lunch after which Nikki and Hayden returned to the Golden Hills.

Naida, Pookie, Haden, Nikki

Nikki with a New Friend

Nikki spent three day trying to cross the Sierra’s to visit with relatives in Reno but was stymied by the Great Snowstorm of 2021 that blocked the passes through the mountains. Eventually, the snow abated, Cal-Trans cleared the roads he succeeded it getting through to enjoy the joys of Reno and relatives.

 

The following day, I slept until noon and then spent most of the afternoon listening to Tony Bennet. The day was rather dark and dreary. That and Tony Bennett prompted some macabre thoughts about the rapidly approaching New Year especially since I may not experience another one. At my 76th birthday, a little over five years ago, for some reason, I was prompted to think about epitaphs. I came up with several. The winning one was:

 

“I came. I saw. I did not like what I was seeing, so I left.”

 

The problem about that one is if I did not like what I saw why did I hang around so long. Perhaps, one the others would be more appropriate. The also-rans were:

 

“His life had its ups and downs. It gave him indigestion,” 

“He hated winter,” 

“I never saw a good reason to get out of bed,” 

“Some lived their life like there were no tomorrows. To him there were only yesterdays,” 

“I really did not want to leave. I was only looking for a change of scenery,” 

“I could have done better, but the stories would not have been as interesting,” 

“I wanted to leave the world better off than I found it. I never knew why,” 

“His life was always a work in progress,” and, 

“Sometimes, it just doesn’t matter.”

 

Now, five years later, I think I am partial to “He hated winter.” That probably has more to do about the gloomy day today than anything else. Perhaps, “His life was always a work in progress” instead. On the other hand, “I never saw a good reason to get out of bed,” seems to fit me well.

 

On Thursday morning, I got up early and ate my usual breakfast of perfectly sliced bagels, slathered with cream cheese, and piled with lox, and coffee. As much as I enjoyed it, the persistent soreness in my throat was more painful than ever. I returned to bed, not because of the pain and irritation, but on account of the depression. I know that I often joke about my hypochondria and my supposed bouts with depression, but this whole getting old has gotten morose. I do not know how long I lay there feeling sorry for myself, but eventually Naida came up stairs carrying another severed stalk from the Aloe Vera plant in the back yard. She sat on the bed and began covering the sores of my chest and back with the slime from the plant while happily explaining the sociological meaning and significance of the movie, The Father of the Bride, starring Spence Tracy and Kathrine Hepburn that she had just watched again for the tenth time or more. Her method of applying the Aloe Vera slime consisted of cutting off a small piece of the severed leaf and applying it slimy side down to the sore and then covering it with a band-aid so that the slime did not get rubbed off or dried up right away. She also brought up a cup of Slippery Elm Tea for me to drink. She said the tea was used by singers to sooth their throats before going on stage. It seemed to work.

 

Suddenly I began to feel better. I looked out the window. The day that had begun in dark grey now had a silver sheen to it. So, in better spirits, I got up, went downstairs, had some soup for lunch, read a bit of the latest novel I am reading, and eventually wrote this.

 

Did you know Coddiwomple means to travel purposefully toward an as-yet-unknown destination? I always thought I coddiwompled through life. Most of us do.

 

On New Year’s Eve morning, I got up early and rushed over to the doctor’s office seeking a diagnosis and hopefully a cure of my throat and skin maladies. I did not get a clear diagnosis but several medicined were prescribed, I then picked up some additional medicines and returned home. Upon my return, I turned on the TV and learned that perhaps one of the bleakest years of history has ended even worse than I could have imagined. Betty White died. For at least the last decade or more, she kept our spirits up. This elderly woman who’s indomitable good spirits made me smile whenever I saw her and is now gone. An already grim 2021, I feel, now passes into an even more unpromising and ominous 2022. Happy New Year.

 

2022 begins. It is about noon. Nothing too bad has happened yet today. We watched Fiddler on the Roof while we ate breakfast. So far so good for the new year.

 

Terry Pratchett once opined “What happens stays happened.” I say, “Once forgotten, why should one care what happened.” One of life’s worst experiences is someone reminding you of something you were happy you had forgotten.

 

Last night we watched television for several hours. This morning I recall none of it. If anyone knows what I watched, please do not tell me.

 

On Sunday, the day broke sunny and warm. After breakfast and while waiting for the SF 49ers game to begin, I decided to read Jefferson’s bible. Don’t ask how and why I came to do that, it is too complicated. In brief, I was doing my usual fishing through the internet to pass the time rather than watching old movies of the news on television or sitting slack jawed and staring out the window, I found myself directed to Jefferson’s opus and decided to read it. It is Jefferson’s revision of the gospel without the hocus-pocus — scrubbed clean of miracles and mysticism. It consists mostly of Jesus’ moral teachings. Everyone should read it if they would like to know what the Jesus Church was all about before it became prostituted into Christianity. Jefferson called it “the Philosophy of Jesus.”

 

The 49ers just scored to pull ahead. Jesus had nothing to do with it. They still will probably lose but at least it may not be a total embarrassment.

 

After the game (the 49ers won), there was still some sunlight outside  Naida, the dog and I went for a walk through the Enchanted Forest. After dinner at a noodle place, we returned home and watched “Cinema Paradiso” starring one of my favorite actors Philippe Noiret.

 

The past isn’t made of facts, not really, just stories people tell to make themselves feel better. I originally began writing T&T because, in part, I wanted to be able to remember my past. It has not worked. One always makes thing up whether we know it or not either because of errors of perception or the necessity of discretion when what is written may be read by those one may have written about. Only in writing fiction can you write those secret things of the heart and the bits and pieces banal evil we all carry around within us.

 

 

I guess it is just another example of the things we mean to do not matching what we accomplish. Or as Sir Terry Pratchett opines:

 

“We pride ourselves on making a good history of our lives, a good story to be told.”

Pratchett, Terry. I Shall Wear Midnight (Discworld Book 38) (p. 314). HarperCollins.

 

 

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MOPEY JOE’S MEMORIES: New Year’s Eve 2012.

POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN THAILAND:

 

Yesterday I was in my manic state, the drooling but happy one. On my way to exercise in the morning, I felt good enough to do an impromptu little soft shoe on the street corner including a Durante like shuffle with my hat waving in my hand at the side of my face. The Little Masseuse was embarrassed and asked me to stop before people began to think I was not 100 percent.

 

Later that evening at dinner in the tiny restaurant near the apartment where we usually eat dinner when we go out, the only other table was occupied by three young people, obviously students. One was a very tall slender Thai woman sporting dread locks down to her waist. I later learned she was a student studying English in Singapore, home for the holidays. They were singing karaoke on a portable machine supplied by the proprietor of the place. They asked me to join in and still in my manic stage, I did, singing a soulful and doleful version of “100 (or was it 500, I can never remember) Miles.” I wanted to follow it up with “My way” and “Country Road,” but desisted because I felt I would be pushing my welcome. The Little Masseuse said it was ok for me to sing as long as I did not dance on the street corner. She asked me if I did that back in the US and promised to take me to a place where I could sing and dance to my heart’s content.

 

NEW YEAR’S EVE IN BANGKOK:

 

On New Year’s Eve, at about 6pm I decided to treat myself to a slice of pizza. I walked up Soi Nana to one of the two pizza parlors on the street, the one claiming it serves New York style pizza. I ordered a slice of what looked like pepperoni and a coke for $1.33 and read my book. In was the latest from Eco entitled “The Prague Cemetery.” As usual with most of Eco’s books since Foucault’s Pendulum, it was erudite, well written, fascinating and a little bit superficial.

 

My pizza slice tasted better than the last time I ate there, so I ordered another, ate it and set off for an early evening stroll on Soi Nana.

 

The street, usually a somewhat serious place of business and commerce purveying sex, alcohol and drugs, was more festive this evening. A forlorn but enthusiastic group of dragon dancers accompanied by loud noises and acrobatics moved from bar to bar, thrusting its giant dragon head as far into the open front of the establishments as they could. There were a few fireworks set off by the local street children and along the sidewalks some of the locals had set up small barbecues for picnic parties.

 

The Ladies and Lady-boys of the night were out, dressed in their holiday finest. In any contest of fashion splendor, however, the lady-boys win hands down. The fashion sense of their undress were more spectacular, their hairdo’s and makeup finer, and their breasts much larger, exposing all but the dreaded, illegal and shameful nipple. The physics of achieving such upthrust exposure would make Steven Hawking marvel.

 

The Ladies, on the other hand, were more subdued and seemed more relaxed. Gone was the grim determination of the normal working day, usually begun with an early morning visit to the temple to pray that someone would buy their body that day, replaced instead with a sense that today was a holiday and the desperate plying of their trade could be put off for a day.

 

Not so the Lady-boys, they were going for the gold tonight.

 

After returning to my apartment and taking a nap, I went to the area around the World Center where BKK’s New Year’s Eve countdown festivities would take place. There were thousands and thousands of people there aimlessly milling about much like New Year’s Eve in Times Square except there you got to mill about in crushing crowds while freezing your ass off while here you got to do the same until you felt faint from heat prostration.

 

There was some entertainment, mostly by a third level American pop singer, but most people merely waited and milled about. Then at midnight a pleasantly noisy fireworks display brought in the new year.

 

We were standing by the local McDonald, which was hosting a VIP party on the sidewalk in front. Ronald McDonald left the party and graciously posed and preened for photographs with some of the crowd.

 

Then the crowds began to disperse. We waited a few minutes for the worst of the crush to move on, then began to make our way toward Sukhumvit and home.

 

At one point the crowd was funneled through a narrow area, bounded on one side with the fence separating the entertainers from the masses and on the other a wall about 10 feet high supporting a plaza area upon which was another VIP gathering.

 

Here the crowd moving in one direction met up with those going in the other and pandemonium erupted. The rent- a-cops on the plaza at one end of the wall were urging the crowd forward into the vortex, while those at the other end were doing the same. The security guards in the middle however were urging everyone to turn around and go back.

 

Now, the Thais do not seem to be as prone to panic as westerners, but it began to break out nonetheless as the mass of bodies crashed and vibrated. People began passing children up to those on the wall to remove them from the danger of suffocation or trampling, followed by some women who were also passed up. Then the “me first,” men began scrambling up leaving the remaining women and children to fend for themselves.

 

At first I sort of enjoyed abandoning myself to the ebb and flow of the crowd and being taller that most Thais avoided the confusion and anxiety of those who could not see what was going on around them.

 

After a while, I grew tired of all this. Being larger and heavier than most Thai’s and knowing the Thai abhorrence of confrontation, I decided to simply bull my way through, Ugly American style, dragging along whomever in my wake.

 

I felt uncomfortable pitting my bulk against the much smaller Thai men, so I tried to direct my path through the largest men I could find and simply push them out-of-the-way. Unfortunately, I could not avoid bumping into some of those much smaller than I. I still remember the look on one young man’s face as I inadvertently broke his sunglasses as I pushed past him.

 

Nevertheless, without too much difficulty, I waded through the human mass, reached the end of the impasse and turned into a side street where much to my surprise were hundreds of BKK’s finest police lounging around in their busses or sitting on steps. Not a single one had been deployed in crowd control.

 

Anyway, feeling a bit elated by my bath of adrenaline and testosterone, we walked the mile of so back to Soi Nana, then took a motorbike taxi the rest of the way to the apartment.

 

I hope you all had a Happy New Year also.

 

 

2011: THE YEAR IN REVIEW.

 

I guess if I were to give the year a name, I would call 2011 “The Year the Train Left the Station and We Were Not On it.” Since there were too many departing trains that we missed to discuss here, I will only look at what could be referred to as “The Big Train” or the “Everything Train” or even the “God Train.”

 

The God Train has an engineer and a conductor who sometimes change jobs. One I like to call “The Sorcerers Apprentice.” He represents the fundamental physical and mathematical constraint that nothing in nature increases geometrically forever. (In other words the only miracle of compound interest occurs if you are lucky to get out in time.) As long as there is an end (a wall), whether it is at the far reaches of the universe or across the room compound, growth eventually must stop. In our case, you and I, the limit is often set by the earth; its air water or whatever.

 

In 2011, it appears to me that most of us, even those whose interest it is to ignore or deny it, have recognized a feeling no matter how vague that there are limits to most things. Unfortunately, one of the undeniable aspects of geometric growth is that, in effect, it speeds up the closer it gets to its limit. This is often represented in the hockey stick graph we have all seen whenever someone wishes to frighten someone else into awareness of a particular limit. (It never works by the way. I guess no one fears a hockey stick.)

 

The second employee of Godʼs Railroad, I like to refer to as the Rich Poor Ghost. (Not the Poor Rich Ghost — there are a lot of them around. Perhaps more today than ever.) You see there is another physical law of the universe; everything, even thought, takes energy no matter how little. But. what is special about the Rich Poor Ghost, is that often when you want to do something else, almost anything else than what you are doing (or change something), it takes energy (or money) to stop what you are doing and even more energy or money to start doing the new thing.

 

Take for example an old automobile you have that you may still have some payments on it. You would like to rid yourself of the old clunker and get something that would better let everyone know that you are richer than you really are. Now normally there is no problem. You go to the dealer and trade in your old car and drive away with a fully bank owned new car. You can do it because the manufacturer bears the cost of building the auto and charges you a mark up for that service when you purchase the car.

 

Assume however, he doesnʼt do that and you are required to advance him the cost right from the digging up the metals with which the car is fabricated all the way until it reaches you freshly painted in the color of your choice. You then, for a while, are paying twice, paying for your old car and for your new. Unpleasant, but you have a good job with extra money and a great deal of optimism, so you make the deal. But what happens if you do not have the money? Well you can sell your old car, but you would have to go without personal transportation. You could wait until you have paid off the car, but it is an old car and there is increased upkeep and maintenance before your fully warranted car is ready and so on.

 

Well, the Rich Poor Ghost is telling us that, if we want to have a chance to avoid driving into the Sorcererʼs Apprenticeʼs wall, it is going to cost money. But, in 2011 we realized that our money (or energy ) is decreasing so there is less of it with which to do what we want. And, since the Rich Poor Ghost tells us is that you must pay twice in order to get that new car or energy system or financial system or whatever, you are going to have to give up something else that you have or want. In other words a significant contraction of life style and a contraction of the economy is necessary.

 

In 2011 we, vaguely perceiving the God Train about to leave the station, had another drink at the bar decided that the tickets were too expensive and hoped that a new train with cheaper tickets would depart in the morning.

 

 

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POOKIE’S ADVENTURES AT THE START OF THE NEW YEAR.

 

 

 

New Year’s Day.

 

I awoke early this morning, not so much to enthusiastically welcome the New Year but more to gratefully acknowledge I had not awakened in the old.

 

It is traditional, at the beginning of a new year to write resolutions about things one intends to do to make themselves better. At my age, what’s the point? I think I’d rather commit myself going forward to doing whatever it has been that I have been doing recently in the faint hope that I will be able to continue doing it for far longer than I expect.

The initial political news of this new year I learned was that Congress overrode the President’s veto of the Defense spending bill. Independent of the merits of the bill or the intentions of those for or against the override, I wonder why it is that we seem to be so able to join together to enthusiastically support the funding of the mechanism of death, but seem to rarely agree upon the funding for making life better. Why is it unquestioning support for governmental control over that which can kill us all is deemed patriotic, while governmental support of those things that can make out lives better are so often criticized as threats to liberty or the frenzied raging of foreign ideologies?

This was also the third anniversary of Bill Geyer’s death. Naida was very sad and so was I. He was always a good friend to me. We spent most of the day as we often do, working on our computers and watching the news and movies on television. I searched for some interesting poets and poetry. I found a 19th century poet of whom Poe said of one of his poems that although part’s were praiseworthy “…the greater part of it is utterly destitute of any evidence of imagination whatsoever.” That ended the poets career and he died a few years later at the young age of 25. Nevertheless, that poor young man is considered by those who keep track on such things “…one of the early American Romantic poets who made a notable contribution to his country’s literature.” (https://mypoeticside.com/poets/joseph-rodman-drake-poems)

Day Two.

 

This morning, I decided, instead of dressing before breakfast, to remain in my new silk pajamas. So I wrapped myself in Bill’s old scarlet robe and headed downstairs where Naida chuckled and the dog barked gleefully.

The Cardinal of the Enchanted Forest.

 

A bit abashed, I made my breakfast of cinnamon rolls and coffee and began perusal of the day’s doings on the internet. Among other things, I discovered that Keith Lampe, the Ponderosa Pine, who wandered the streets of San Francisco during its heyday as the center of world hippiedom had died in 2014 somewhere in Ecuador. I have written about Keith here before. How he was a well known newspaper reporter and environmentalist who travelled to San Francisco, grew his hair long, gave up speaking except in growls, and traveled around town with a seven-foot long single-stringed instrument upon which he would strum and accompany with his deep-throated howls much to the amusement of the citizens of the city and bewilderment of out-of-towners. One night, while I was living in Noe Valley, I recall he spent an evening in the apartment above me baying at the full moon. If anyone is interested in knowing more about Keith here is his obituary that was printed in the Point Reyes Light: (https://www.ptreyeslight.com/article/ponderosa-pine-who-chanted-bolinas-dies-ecuador)

Naida played on the piano most of the morning, singing and rummaging through old tunes like Roll Out the Barrel and Home On the Range. She halted playing the latter tune to inform me that the composer of the piece was married six times — about as many times as me.

That evening we decided to take a bath. The bathroom in the master bedroom has only a shower. It is large enough to accommodate three or four people comfortably. The guest bedrooms have a bathtub in their bathroom. For sanitary reasons a shower is better but there is nothing as relaxing as a warm bath except now and then sex if you can get beyond the doubt.

Naida and I have developed a tradition these three years we have been together to take luxurious baths now and then during the winter months. Not together as we sometimes do in the shower, the bathtub is too small and we are striving for maximum self-indulgence.

So, that evening, I filled the bathtub with water so hot I almost could not stand it, lit a few scented candles, dumped a good amount of bath oils and various bubble bath concoctions into the water turned on my smartphone to music, shut off the lights and gingerly slipped into the water.

It was glorious lying there in water almost hot enough to burn my skin off, the bubbles caressing my nose and ears, the candles flickering gently in the darkness and the music drifting into the air.

The only music I have on my smartphone is The Girl From Ipanema. It played over and over. I consider it the greatest song ever written. The perfect blend of rhythm and melody and balance of instruments and voice. I listened to Astrid Gilberto while lying there until all my senses were overrun and I left the bath. Naida then took her bath. After bathing and dinner we went to bed and read while listening to Norma (the Opera) and Miles Davis before falling asleep. So far so good for 2021.

Day Three.

The next day was a bit of a setback. I slept most of the day, the dog pissed on the rug, a tape was released of an hour long telephone conversation between Trump and the Secretary of State of Georgia during which Trump directly asked (demanded) the Secretary to recalculate the vote in his favor.
“So what are we going to do here, folks? I only need 11,000 votes. Fellas, I need 11,000 votes. Give me a break.”
The President of the United States soliciting voter fraud.

Also,10 former Republican and Democratic Secretaries of Defense have found something concerning enough to write a letter warning that using the military to resolve election disputes would be “dangerous, unlawful and unconstitutional.”

Later things got a bit better. Naida made a fire and we sat on the sofa in front of it, drank eggnog, and listened to Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet. Later we danced in the kitchen to Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue. We then watched a delightful silent movie entitled The Star Prince, made in 1918 during another pandemic 102 years ago. It was a children dress up play with five to eight year old children fitted out as kings, queens, fairies and ogres. I like children’s books even more than I like young adult fiction.

All in all, I have had much worse days.

Day Four.

 

On the fourth day of the new year it rained. Not a downpour by any means but a weak drizzle that lasted throughout most of the day. I decided to drive into the Golden Hills for lunch with HRM. As I entered the Mitsubishi, I found the windshield wipers did not work so I called HRM and cancelled our lunch. As I exited the car the anti-theft device went off with a loud screeching sound. I sat there trying to figure out how to shut it off. Failed. Thought I should drive around the Enchanted Forest so no one neighborhood has to bear the discomfort. After about 15 minutes of frightening strollers and other drivers, I figured how to shut it off. I went home dejected and asked Naida to put my pandemic hair up because its flopping in front of my eyes was annoying. I came out looking like an Aztec soldier.

Day Five.

 

 

It was sunny outside today so I drove the Mitsubishi into the Golden Hills to have lunch with Hayden and to exchange the few remaining Christmas presents. I received a nice shirt and some things for the bath and gave Hayden, Dick and SWAC portable survival kits. We had a nice lunch at Bella Bru after which I dropped him off at the skatepark and I returned home.

 

 

Today was the Georgia Senatorial runoff election that will determine control of the Senate. I sat before the TV and awaited for the returns to start coming in. The first reports were not encouraging. The youth vote appears down and  although the black vote remained steady the white vote increased slightly.

 

 

At about 8:30 it appeared as though Warnock had pulled ahead of Loeffler by a small but significant margin given the number of votes remaining to be counted. Ossoff on the other hand remained tied with Perdue.

 

 

By the time we went to bed, Warnock had given his victory speech and Ossoff remains tied. If Ossoff prevails with the remaining votes, Georgia once the heart of the old Christian racist, conservative South will have elected a  black  and a Jewish Senator both of whom are strong progressives.

 

 

 

Day Six.

 

 

I got up at six o’clock. I could not sleep because I suddenly remembered last night I left the Mitsubishi parked in the alley behind the house where parking is prohibited. I went downstairs, checked to see if the car had been towed (it hadn’t) made myself some coffee, opened my computer and discovered that Ossoff had been projected to win Georgia. So far this appeared to be a good day. Later the Congress is slated to certify the results of the election. Given the President and a group of Republican’s opposition to the results in several states it looks like a mess.

 

 

Now, I am watching the assault on the capitol. Where was the security? Where were the police, the national guard? What would have happened if these were black men protesting? On the other hand, we are watching history being made. It is ugly. It is always ugly. As Dan Simmons wrote, “history viewed from the inside is always a dark, digestive mess, far different from the easily recognizable cow viewed from afar by historians.”  

 

 

Ironically, while the Trump zombies were taking over the Capitol, the media declared Ossoff the victor in Georgia. With this Democratic victory, Trump, during his period in office, has lost the House of Representatives, Senate and the Presidency.

 

 

 

Seventh Day.

 

 

This morning I left the Enchanted Forest for my infusion appointment. Traffic was light and I spent most of my time as I usually do on long drives, allowing my mind to wind out long essays on one thing or another, convincing myself how brilliant I am, and promising that I will write it all down as soon as I get home. Alas, always as soon as I arrive wherever I am going and turn the key shutting down the car, I forget everything. This time I at least wrote down the subjects of my musing, my walking stick and voters rights. As for walking sticks, I have always been fascinated by them and even had a large collection of them at one time. About ten years ago, I began carrying one because of my tendency to stagger as I walked had gotten worse and I thought I looked cool. Most other people, I am sure, thought I appeared ridiculous. Anyway, my thoughts were about how the walking stick or a cane was the most effective and purely defensive weapon. But, later when thinking about it free of the semi-dream state of the drive, I recalled the 1854 almost fatal caning on the floor of the Senate of Senator Charles Sumner of Massachusetts by Senator Preston Brooks of South Carolina. Some have considered it the symbolic of the “breakdown of reasoned discourse” and the use of violence that eventually led to the Civil War. It reminds me of the symbolism of yesterday’s assault on the Capitol building. To a great extent, it is over the same issue, full citizenship of people of color seemingly at the expense of vulnerable white men.

 

 

Anyway, after my treatment I returned home to the Enchanted Forest. I was too exhausted for day-dreaming on the trip back and went to bed not long after returning home.

 

 

January 8.

 

 

Morning brought the talking heads to discuss impeachment. The White House argued it would divide the country. What the hell fomenting an attack on the Capital does to foster national unity was not discussed by the White House. The President has flown off to hide at Camp David. He said he will not attend Joe Biden’s inauguration. Biden agrees he should not. Meanwhile for the 11 days or so remaining before the inauguration of a new President, Nancy Pelosi seems to be all the nation has for a head of government. She has already moved to deny Trump control over nuclear missiles.

 

 

That evening we decided to light a fire in the fireplace and enjoy an eggnog in front of it. For some reason we could not light the fire and sent smoke swirling throughout the house requiring us to spend some time outdoors in the cold waiting for the smoke to clear. After we returned to the house we discovered we were out of eggnog. So, we put some brandy into glasses of Ensure and sat before the TV drinking our Ensure-nogs until we went to bed.

 

 

Have a good day.

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