It’s a quarter ‘til midnight, and I can’t sleep. Yet nothing is particularly troubling me tonight. Cars rumble by on their way home from town, and the soft thud of military ordinance drifts in from Fort Hood as the troops prepare for war. The thermostat is set back at night, so I have a small space heater for my feet and a large heating pad on my new $59 executive chair. The old $49 executive chair came apart like the shay in Oliver Wendell Holmes poem One-Hoss Shay, though it didn’t last a hundred years like the shay did.
I made up some bologna and cheese sandwiches earlier this week, and I am enjoying a half one along with a small glass of lemonade. I had to give up milk. It seems the high-powered antibiotics not only killed off the good gut bacteria, but also made me lactose intolerant. I have unsuccessfully searched for non-sweetened drinks, but other than some exotic teas, there just isn’t much out there.
I seldom write at night. I don’t like the tangents I go off on when I do. But tonight, the TV doesn’t interest me, and I don’t want to read. So here I sit in the gloom trying to find tidbits to talk about, and ways to make the tidbits interesting. I think I am going to fail that one.
Usually when this sort of urge to write falls on me, it is because I am wrestling with something or arguing with God. I am vexed with my weakness and unfinished chores keep piling up. I need to get propane for my weed burner and burn off a lot of deadwood collected in two burn piles. I need to clean up Bucephalus, my aging Dodge mommy van that has sat for two and a half years until my eyes got fixed. Maybe that is it … it is my winter of discontent. All I can seem to talk about is me. I don’t even have interest in the political and social trainwreck that is going on around me. GenZ’s are clamoring for more government. Churches are a mess of competing theologies. And I still can’t walk on water … so I can’t help them out of the morass.
Bits and pieces of an old short story I wrote some years back have returned to my mind, and I want to rewrite it. Don’t know why. SciFi and Fantasy shorts are dead venues. There are no Robert Heinleins, Harlan Ellisons, Arthur C. Clarkes, Frank Herberts, Isaac Asimovs or Ray Bradburys today. All that is left of their legacy is rewrites by screen writers. But like the old crank that I am, I crank on.
I am starting to take a little pride in my appearance again, though I never had a lot to begin with. And I am straightening up the studio. Each day I get a little bit stronger, and all that elevates me. It would be cool to be able to attend shul/church/assembly again, but I am not so sure Snookums is up to that now. We’ll see.
So with that, I think I’ll return to bed. But I can legitimately say Good Morning!