9/8

Before I went off to bed, way too late, when the faithful should be rising to say their prayer chants, I've had the wine to help me relax my strained mind, to cook bacon for sandwiches for mom tomorrow, to cook myself the hamburger from the Finger Lakes farm where the cows are grass fed and just the fat signals one to take one's fill, in three balls in the small black iron Lodge pan, also for the morrow.  I go to bed reflecting on Romapada Swami talking of the incredible journey Srila Prabhupada made to come to the US in his seventies from Calcutta to bring the Krishna Consciousness movement, a great act of faith of many dimensions.  But I also must ponder his being demeaning to women, for all he accomplished in transmitting with scholarly fidelity what the tradition had passed on, most respectfully, to him.

It takes me a while to feel sleepy, and I think the mantra of Hare Krishna silently as I lay there on the mattress on the cement floor of the darkened basement, only the too bright LED light next to me along with the cell phone screen if I can find it, with mom two floors away from me, with the dehumidifier running its condensation coil churnings of breath, and I suppose I fall to sleep that way, but again wondering about my life, and how can I possibly rejoin the workforce, have a job, take care of myself, I just don't have a clue, if I should stop dreaming or sleeping, or simply being shut down and quiet, and have to start thinking again.  Becoming a multifarious Shakespearean character or myriad thereof.  Hamlet's father confined to fast in fires until all his evil deeds are burnt away, or any number of them, Bill knew it all, everything, everybody, and he put it into words, raw, as he knew, and he got it all true.

Mom is going into the bathroom, keeping her conversation with her image in the mirror, oh, hi, are you here too, ha ha, with a shirt wrapped around her waist for underwear, as I see as I stand at the top of the stairs, coming from my tee cups and kitchen plans.  Two pairs of pants here and there on the floor, I see here at the top of the stairs where I have set up a kind of tank trap to keep her upstairs and not pester me, and it seems to be working.  I move the little rubber table, I got the cat's hairball goop on it leaking from its toothpaste tube, out of the way, and I say, okay, look mom, you're wearing a shirt around your waist, and she tells me, so what, she doesn't care if people think she's however she sees fit, okay, but mom you need to... lets get your booties off.  She's sitting on the toilet about to pee, but I come in, wearily say, hi, mom how are you, convince her to remove the puffy booties one by one and put her old feet like claw toe nails in through the leg openings of the Depends precautionary underwear one by one, so she's got them the right way on, and pulled up toward her knees, which went okay, she didn't yell at me, so... I go into her room and find a pair of jeans, look at the size of them, okay, 10, I think these will work.

My first thoughts rising acknowledged, have acknowledged in coming to consdciousness, this situation, as I lay in the darkness, then hearing the cat calling to be helped out, then the gets the doors open and tells me his needs from the stairs, as I think of going yet again on Amazon for just some simple elastic waist or draw string sweatpants for her, perhaps with enough sort of finish to them that she can get away, given that people are understanding around here in restaurants, with out in public.  Oh, shit.  I must endure another day here, completely open ended and crazy and deprived of normal friendship.  Abandoned.  That's how it goes.

It's a grey day, cooler now in early September.  These should be my favorite months, I say, Kerouac October swelling through the maple land. Poplars out back.  I get the cat fed, he thanks me, then I let him out, after spooning wet can food into his dish three times, I get the hot water going as the kettle water starts its sighs of heating, not having any inspiring amount of tea in mason jar fridge.  The riding lawn mower makes a pass by, and its awful noisy, and I think how Derrick, the fix everything guy, looks a bit like Kid Rock, but heavier, larger, short hair... basketball long gym shorts, baseball cap, cigarette, a distant man in his own man world, and I go back to my own thoughts after lifting the white faded outdoor rubber chair upon the back stoop so he can pass through with the red riding mower, giving him enough trouble with the sprawling tomato plants. 

Make mom her BLT, cluttering struggle to find space on the counter to bring it all together, then bring her a cup of water with ice cubes so she can take her pills, and there's mom on the bed in a reasonable mood, not immediately pestering me about when she's going to be taken home because this isn't her home, one sock on, the other in the bathroom, putting on her minimal sneaker shoes with the velcro band, light pink and light grey, and she asks me, showing some gratitude, if they're paying me well, and I say no not really.  She asks me if I'm going to have any fun today, and I say no, I'm just going to try to do some work, what kind of work, and I say, I'm a famous writer, from some bitter source of humor within, then emphasizing that she too is a writer, the curse of literary talent, what can you do, and she tells me in different words how she wants me to have fun in my life too and I think of a couple girls, women, who I would very much enjoy being with in any way shape or form or station or situation, but that though I am and have always been a person of faith, hopefully a man about it, I wish I had some job or comfort of future compensation to go with this situation, I mean, and that's in addition to finding some nice girl, of whatever age, with recognizable interests and a good influence, unlike my own self upon myself, and the bottle of wine at night that helps at night but not in the morning. 

I go and check on her, the dishes still soaking, as I cut a lemon into wedges, the kettle on the stove again, the click of the knob and the coil itself.  Blankness.  Should I find the courage to cancel mom's AT&T finally?  I tried to do it earlier, but they came back with an offer of a very inexpensive phone, but she's past that now, as all this continues to make me very nervous here, waiting around, not knowing what the hell to do with myself.  

I try... but I don't have her passcode, even though I have her social security number, so...  I'm told by the nice African American woman Michelle that I need to go down to an AT&T store... I thought I did this earlier, but was enticed back with the offer of a replacement phone for her, for twenty bucks a month, but with a two year commitment.  The passcode is numerical, four to eight numbers, something like that...  Go down to the store with your power of attorney...  Maybe I should just stop paying the bill.  

So I've been uneasy all day.  I've had a good exchange with my new friend Jennifer.  I come out of the shower, and then mom has woken up and she's holding her hand on her crotch and saying she's wet.  No peeking, she says, as I open the door to look for my cell phone.  Mom, I've already changed your underwear once today...

Well, if you hadn't had anything to eat all day, she says, quite angry with me in her accusation, mom, I fed you two hours ago, a BLT....  and some sweet potato fries...  It's all my fault.

She's reaching for the new pink pants, but I try to get her to put on an old pair of denims, the Oompa Loompa pants handy...  We're not going out today, which in a way is a relief to know...  One question solved.  

But then after I bring her a reheated in the toaster chicken Napoli sandwich from Rudy's, minus the marinara sauce, she denies that her pants are wet.  I go around the corner to figure out how to change the batteries in the remote, which I succeed at, but it still doesn't work, so I unplug the box and meanwhile mom's saying, what the hell are you doin', and then something about she wants to be home, not here, so here we go again, and the countdown on the screen is taking its sweet time.  Science Friday is on the NPR station, but nothing is soothing today.  As I'm waiting, mom telling me I broke the tv, I see the cat out the window under the healthier of the two hemlock trees, in his spot beneath the low branches.  What are you looking at, mom asks me. 

Mom's crinkling the small Real Sugar Pepsi can as I see that the tv is working, and it probably wasn't the batteries that were the issue, but the remote was a pain to slide open and I'm not feeling like a raging success today as the cat calls to me in his little high voice for food.  Two creatures who cannot communicate with me, that makes.  Trying to figure out what they might want, when, cued mysteriously, dealing with their now particular personal habits of interaction.  There's nothing I really, or we, need at the grocery store, but out of boredom I might try going out to the Price Chopper at some point, for a little bit greater variety that have.   The cat meows at me, looking at me like he might come closer and head me with his little head on my leg, more food, there's more in that can, but when I get to my feet from the chair at the kitchen table that was once our dining room table back on Ernst Road, he moves to the door, and he goes and licks his chops and looks intently, scanning the horizon for movement and the other cat.  I've put the television on to PBS, and it's a cooking show, so she won't have to ask herself too many questions about the news and such.  

Fasting, I crack open another Polar Seltzer, perhaps regretting the lime flavored 12 pack with the green can, take in another sip of lemon water with a good dash of powdered ginger, turmeric, and I guess I need to meditate now somehow, though I really feel like lying down and weeping.  Very tiresome not to be doing anything, to feel trapped.  I don't even have the energy to do the dishes now, so discouraged.  

I rise from my nap in the basement, turn the knob of the dehumidifier back on, reverse clockwise from behind, then go up the stairs, hearing the toilet flush and the water rushing through the pipes.  I better... SO I go up and check on her, and she looks up at me as she gets back to the bed, sorry about the big disaster here.  She has a shirt that resembles a long johns fabric shirt dyed in shades of purple, earlier around her waist, now tucked into the pink tee shirt she wore to the doctor's office two days ago.  Did she spill water?  Did she pee her pants?  First she says the pants are soaking, but also maintaining that her depends is not so dry, and she opens her legs to put a palm on the crotch as I turn away.  Where's my husband?  I look back her.  Don't tell me he's dead too, she almost cries out.  I go into the bathroom to investigate, see if there are any clues.  Is Ted dead?  No, mom, he's your son, and I'm Ted, I say, back in the room.  She lifts the little now empty can of Pepsi at me from the little side table.  Earlier, when dropping it off I bumped slightly into her foot, and she cried out as if I'd stepped on her toe.  How would you like to be flat on your back and someone hit you, she says with a look.  Yeah, I didn't think so, she said.  

I've come back with a Fresca, nice and cold in the can.  This seems to placate her, though it's not Pepsi.  

Earlier I was looking at the to go menu of the new Sushi Restaurant on Bridge Street near the Wayne Drug and across from the bookstore.  My mind is blank from ragweed still, and I'm having problems grasping things almost, so it's a relatively nice moment of the day for me to sort of half daydream about sushi and poke bowls and go slowly over the options.   I've brought the grey jeans mom has gotten wet, and as I venture a sniff at them, maybe it is in fact just water, not pee.  Who knows what happened.  She's managed to put her pants on, a new pair, as I turn away, when she says, please don't be grumpy with me...  I'm negotiating my way around the big plastic storage been I've put across the mouth of the stairwell to slip around it, and I hear her, happy for the time being, say, you know we all love you.  

I've been to the mailbox, wearing my mask, and a baseball hat, find out as he yells out from his truck that Chuck is going off to pick up his son, after he gets his truck inspected, running late.  I've finally dumped out all the bottles of wine with just a little sitting in them, from the fruit flies, and I see the little bodies as I pour the old wine out into the stainless steel sink with some satisfaction, before washing them down the drain, then soon putting all the bottles in a shopping brown paper bag, to take them out to the recycling, where I come across Maureen, Elliot's lady, in golf gear.  I've just got a package delivered from the Amazon guy, and when she applauds the arrival of something new, and I explain it's the real sugar Pepsi, for mom, you know, not refined sugar, just about the same price as I'd find out at the Price Chopper, I say with a shrug.  They do have good hummus out there, but...  There's not a lot of variety here, she says.  She opens the trunk to do a check on golf bag things, and we get into a brief talk about the limited options here, when she lived in the Bronx there were all sorts of food options, bodegas with fresh deli selection, on and on, stuff you just can't find here.   Like the people here, she says.  Not much variety.

I get the dishes washed finally, wearing the blue gloves in the hot water, as the cat is back under his tree, crouched comfortably surveying the yard from the other side after cleaning.  It's almost six so I need to eat something, one of the three hamburgs I cooked last night into the toaster over at three fifty with the remainder of the sliced tomato on top.  Dishes rinsed and drying, a little bit of avocado oil mayo wrapped in two leaves of romaine.  It's good, and I take it in my hands off the plate and eat it standing in my dullness.  And after finishing it, I don't know, I'm still hungry, so...  the hot dogs from the health food store were pretty good last night, so...

I hear the door creak and her footsteps.  Huh huh, she chuckles, not much, she says, responding to her own friendly question.  I don't know what I want to be doing either, ha ha ha.  Shall we go sit down now?  I take the little boxes of Pepsi cans out of the cardboard Amazon box.  Almost shrugging.  I just called to the cat, opening the door and look across the yard at him and he gets up and comes jogging over, calling back, and he'll take up his stand on the back stoop before coming in the door.  

In such moods, I don't even want to go out and face anyone.  Don't want to burden the new sushi restaurant on a Friday night with the students back in town, didn't want to even bother with a haircut downtown, nothing.  A glass of wine, I think of, but...

I go to the foot of the stairs, but not in plain view listening in on her.  Something about not wanting to die, which I think has something to do with the heavy bulk blocking her from coming downstairs, la ti da, she says, who doesn't want to live I'm going to go sit down over there, she says, coming out of the front room cluttered to the gills her old office.   My heart rises when I see her hand close to the banister, but she passes on forward, not noticing my presence.  Chuck is seen out the window his little tow-head blond son pulling a little black suitcase behind him.  

I didn't do much yesterday.  I went down to see Mr. Ron Clark my therapy guy, Mary's husband, down at 8th and Utica for a session of chatting.  One five minutes away, really.  It all comes down to me not having a job, that basic reality, that ship sailing farther and further away from me each living moment as I curl up and deny reality here, but all the while trying to fathom how to deal with it.  And at the end, he said, maybe you're starting to think more of placing your mother somewhere...  And I kind of nodded, and it was good to chat.  Before that I'd been to the Wayne Drug Store, for a pill cutter device, some B12 for mom, shaving cream without sodium laurel sulfates, antacid tablets, also...  Then the grocer store, for soda water, a box of cat food cans, a bag of onions and lemons, then to the wine store, in and out, back home, wearing a mask.  Well, actually, that would have done it, plus going out at night to look at sky descending upon us here with a storm and lightning rolling in from the south.

She's there on the bed propped up on a pillow with the little yorkie doll, how you doing mom, and she's looking at the BBC news on PBS with the volume down, G20, she says, reading the crawl.  I'll take a little bit of food, she says, but no, I know you're busy, it's okay mom.  I've got a slice or two of the cauliflower crust pizza to bring her.  

It's now almost 6 AM, and I'm in the living room before the light comes up, having awakened at 3, and I hear her get up and then her peeing, the tinkle in the water of the toilet bowl in the bathroom at the top of the stairs, followed by through open door five second toot of gas, then her saying, not too bad, and I remember now I have three four pairs of her pants in the washing machine below my feet as I sit in Mom's old Eames Chair.  

I've got a pot of adzuki bean and garbanzo in a curry with pumpkin seed toast the spice on the stove simmering, a fresh pot of Dragonwell...

Romapada Swami is recounting how Prabhupad prepared himself to come and preach to the Americans, English speaking, with the writings of the Vedas that say we have nothing to worry, enter into any battle of meaning, because it is for the purpose of the meaning of your engangement only, not the outcome you need to be concerned with, so if you need to go act like Jesus and saint upon wait upon the publicans and the sinners and the whores, that's just life so you might as well accept that's part of us, our reality, our DNA, and even of Jesus' own self, who in a way is a sinner to talking up or down to the priests gathered at the steps of the temple, but mom is sighing and whispering to herself in my distant sonic awareness...  It's awfully hard not to be tolerant and kind to people... 

I hear mom tearing off a piece of toilet paper, and then at least four two line utterances of iambic pentameter, with additional asides thrown in, academic footnotes to the current moment of her 84 year old time.  She's there.  She might be silent, but she's still there, and I hate ragweed season because it ends up costing me if I just go out for a walk.  

John of the Cross imprisonment, Dark Night of the Soul for your prose, just like Francis after the war with the other hilltop town, held for a year in malarial cell with barely any light through prison window, and not enough interest as usual in watching the Vuelta taking on the Pyrenees scenic climbs up mountain passes unto the Tourmalet.  Cervantes.  And the sounds of the fellow prisoner... the sighs and light moans and plotting hisses of words to bring up to the winds of a heated kettle, or to let them go.  I think of her heavy body.  Thick legs.  The way she decides to rip up the special pee catching Depends underwear, why...  

Ted, just be done with it, the family members say, put her for her own good in a home up there.   Or is this simply the voice in my own head, me trying to read them, rightly, then please them...

Kerouac in all seasons liked to sleep outside in his sleeping bag, roughing it, by standards, as it were. 

I go in and check on the beans I've made still bubbling away more or less at the right bubble.  Actually beautifully delicious, I find, after all my steps of organic and intuitive care.  Prasadam, they call it, blessed food blessed by intention, by thought, and care, and the overseeing of spices.  Better to my taste not to involve the spoiled to my taste flavor of ghee, just go with olive oil, pumpkin seeds, cayenne, ginger, a bay leaf, turmeric, curry powder, oregano, dried basil, cumin, some dried chopped dates, a few Roma tomatoes from the garden itself, salt, pepper, ground clove.  Food and dining is what will save the world.   Nutrition.  The hippie approach.  I'm a carnivore still, but...  Satisfying, in flavor.  Goes in and down in a light way, maybe that this life too, of sustenance, is not all that real also, just like our own lives.  

Make mom a toasted cheese and then almond butter sandwich on sprouted grain Ezekiel bread from the fridge, as I add garbanzos to my pot mix of black eyed peas and adzuki beans.  

There's nothing to fear.  Wisdom will come.  Help spread it.  Natural.

Now she is back on the bed, a towel over her waist and legs, and breathing again with in and out of true sleep, as I place the cheddar and almond butter sandwich cut into four and see the empty plastic film wrapper of orange Keebler peanut butter crackers just to the side of her as she sleeps face up, glasses still on.  It gives me satisfaction to the turn the lamps off, leaving the light on in the bathroom for her to navigate if she needs to.  

I can go back downstairs now, knowing again a small amount of satisfaction.  

9/4

Jesus couldn't keep them all straight, the disciples.  The usual impossible mix of contrary and competing qualities and habits, even those related to the very intimate matters of character related to the spirit within and the teaching.  There was a portion in all of them that could betray, but even that betrayal would or could be out of many many ways and means and things.  Choices.  What could you do?  Such a myriad of things that it was rather easy for Jesus to quip, three times before the cock crows, embracing the world's range of infinite possibilities that would then come true.  Could be for any number of things.  

And in the same he loved them all, as a teacher would, older, in some sense of the term, than they.  

That's why Jesus had striven for maturity, wisdom and experience of life, in every and all things.  He had given up much of his youth for this blind ambition of one standing as a full fledged teacher.  Now I'm old.  And I don't like that either.   What bride would take me now, at my age, Jesus pondered, with a sadness.  And he could have had that, and beautifully and happily.  But.  Where had the years gone?

Having a dependable trade in his pocket had defied Jesus for a long time now.  Sure, he could make ends meet, sort of, not really, in any lasting sense, with his trade of words and parables and understandings and recognizing the sinner in all people with kindness and in judiciously helping them, aiding them, with a few wisely chosen words, certainly helpful for their own ability to face daily existence.  Yet, he wondered, what about himself, though.  Surely, it was rewarding, to align words, to put them in such an arrangement that they reflected the truer nature of the vibrations that had wrought the world and made it all exist, just as it was, down to every atom and particle and inner resonance to the great tune.

It's like what Kurt Vonnegut said, to the folks at the Paris Review.  What we need is a reading public, to, essentially, support all us bums who go about musing about life as it really is, not some soap commercial, as is the expression, perhaps, about commercials, maybe from Papa Kennedy, selling Jack to the nation.  

I make a fresh pot of tea as I get up.  There's some in the mason jar, but it has a bitter taste from my forgetting to time the steeping of the leaves from yesterday, distracted by mom in the other room driving me crazy.   It's early for her to be up, but I hear the heavy footsteps, and at the top of the stairs, the open door of the bathroom there, windowless, with the tub behind the shower curtain, no window in there, above the kitchen, I see the purple heather sweat pants lying on the floor, not folded, just its own pile.  And on the bed, as I stand there with a BLT on Ezekiel toasted, fresh tomato, romaine leaf rinsed and dried, and Hellman's Olive Oil Mayonnaise, still with goddamn soybean oil in it for filler that fills and adds weight to you, just a little, as she requests, bacon extra crispy, and just the slightest hint of mayo, to a waitress, there she is, head on the pillow, a towel over her waist, bare legs, thick and peasant like, and I can see the Depends she has on, to the extent that she is even wearing them, are torn and inside out, which I keep at bay as far as the mind.  It would be time to shower her, high time, as always now.  

Soon some tomato, a little chunk, is on her shirt, and I venture to put the Baily's glass mug she likes, with ice water in it, now on the second trip up to tend to her, so she can take the first of the three morning pills, the tranquility one, what's it called, Venlafaxine.

I look out the window, the white doily curtain on the door, looking out at the golden rod evenly decorating the stand of ragweed at the back edge of the lawn with yellow.  The cat is doing his cleaning, his head bobbing as he sits, or stands, tall to clean the white of his chest and orange fur of shoulder, patiently and actively and systematically.   Back down in the safe quiet of the kitchen.  A little pot of coffee from the Bailetti a little Labor Day treat as the wind sighs outside through leaves that have performed their chlorophyll operations and given us good oxygen all season long as they lean into the wind of shorter days of daylight and the cooling off of early September in its wisdom.  

Mom, in her own opinion, is perfectly fine, nothing wrong it all with not wearing pants, with being a slob.  When I shooed her upstairs, she didn't even want to go into her own room last night, what a mess, as she cried foul over what a bastard I was for making her go, get off the couch, but I'm comfortable here, no, mom, it's better for you... why?  And then the agony of the stairs, oh, my knees, I can't do it, oh, my back, you bastard, why are you making me do this.  

I'll tell you agony, you stupid selfish bitch, Jesus muttered to himself.  The agony of being born and alive, even with all its joys.  Via Dolorosa.  Holy Mary, Mother of God.  Pray for us Sinners, now, and at the hour of our death.

Her obliviousness to deal with for another day.  The blind wants... What are going to be doing today... What are we doing for fun...

And already, Jesus is feeling behind.  Behind on his writing.  Behind on his meditation, always a toss up in the morning's light, too bright at first.  A sun salutation series, slowly, and then twists with legs apart to stand in a warrior's pose to support the trunk in its rotation outward on one side, then pulling through and doing a series on the other side, and then the cobra shoulder's back to improve the attitude for the day, upward not downward, preparing for sadhana, and breath to bring back positivity of attitude.

And these are the sufferings that one has to bear.  My father and his sister had to endure their mother, sturdy woman, who had supported them all through it, running her private speakeasy, dying slowing from the tuberculosis, as the Depression gained steam of permanence through the land, then FDR stepping up, to curb the greed of Men.  

Break down the little box of Woodbridge four pack of little cans of Chardonnay.  The bottles of her wine go back and turn even in the fridge.  The year of things placed carefully enough on a surface, but then the things falling, tumbling off somehow.  The clutter.  Hard on even a yogi's balanced aim.  Bottles of beneficial pills, mason jars of tea, cans and dishes for cat food, the on-going dish operations, the stove with its iron pans and kettle, a mini pot thing to measure cups and to hold the strainer when you pull it hot out of the iron Japanese black tea pot made in China with its zen.  

One Prilosec down the gullet, hopefully not, but probably, breaking the fast, the stomach best left empty of substances before the various exercises of breath and kriya practices.  

I write the posts, daily, pretty much, but I don't post them on the blog publicly any more it seems.  A writer needs a certain privacy to gather the first of the four movements of his Ninth, or whatever the number of the symphony he is writing.  The cloak of silence, so as not to be disturbed by outside opinions, as outside opinions are welcome, otherwise one wouldn't know if he even as an audience, and it would probably be the greatest percentage something blind like Artificial Intelligence cribbing your style.  Feed it all into the great mouth of the infinite number capability, the biggest and finest card trick joke, to make it seem like the computer is actually capable of writing, even one sentence, which of course it isn't.  

Contract the belly in from the diaphragm back to the spine, pushing the prana, energy, life, breath, up, up the spinal passage of nerve energy, up through the neck and into the skull's head caverns, past the eyeballs and the sinuses and other sensory elements of a person's body.   Sadness and depression not mattering for shit anymore.  Breath.  

Then a great exhale, leaning forward, before resuming a straight back as you sit however you sit, exhaling, and then as you rise back straight breath slowly like poured water or oil drawn slowly down into the lowest of the bottom chambers for air of the belly, then expanding the floating ribs outward in all directions 360, then upward to the tree tops of the lungs to flutter in the light within.  Then hold.  40, 50, 60, 70 seconds, sharing with all the cells, the blood pulling a little switch that rejuvenates it on a cellular level, and the slow waves of light sort of flowing pleasantly over the head in a kind of inward swoon, then, hold, release and then get all the old air out, for another fresh ocean running into the sea cave.

Grim, to watch a woman cough her lungs up, helpless.  Chickens in the backyard.  Empty glass beer bottles from the speakeasy home brewed days in the back that all four children will remember cleaning, another whole operation.  

Then, the counted breaths in, sitting up straight.  And mantras to chant, Aum... followed by a series of Sanskrit words to intone deep from where the resonant sounds we are able to make come from.  

Stagnant, in ragweed season.  Doesn't pay to go out and get the exercise of a long walk in, no.  

The white tea pot of lemon water nearing empty.  Cut a fresh lemon, kettle full enough of fresh filtered water from Mulligan tap filter to the Britta pitcher change the filter every three months.  Get the seeds out on the little cutting board, doesn't have to be quite perfect.  Still feels like there's nothing to do here.  Sad.  Go check on mom again, bring her the one hearing aid.  

Only half a bottle of wine last night, after dealing with the insanity of mom for the day.  The Seroquel half a tablet powdered up into coffee ice cream didn't seem to calm her that much, though it did the day before, but maybe she was tired from all the appointments last week.

And what pill can I take...  brainMD gaba calming support, maybe a propranolol.  yeah, why not.  Vegetable cellulose and whatever else won't break a fast, necessarily.  Not that I would know.  

Fresh water for the cats dish, and a sweep of the floor.  

Ahh, can of soda water, the first one, left by the laptop for a bit, an hour, longer, so a fresh replacement, by the sink, lid rinsed, go take a pee.  Can of soda water, kinkajou, kinky jew, word sound, rinse the top off, crack open, miracle, soothing fix washing down, letting the stomach in the belly have its word on a Labor Day Monday of blank calendar.  

If I show this to people, what will they say.

Them's that have eyes, let them see, thems that got ears, let them listen.  Bubbles, fizz, fresh can of Polar Premium Seltzer to lift the mood, all will be alright. 

A sweep of the floor wouldn't hurt.  Bits of cat foot, and one of those little plastic sort of wire things that holds a triad of new socks in a packet on sale at TJ Maxx.  Did I take my GABA pill already, I forget.  Is it worth it to show one's face... to what?  Another monkey baboon showing its own red ass.  A little spoon end of ashwangandha powder in my tea, I like the taste anyway.  A cup of Tulsi tea to brew along with the fresh pot of lemon water.  A lot of seeds in this lemon, here on the bamboo wood or whatever it is cutting board....

St. Francis, he did not betray me.  He got it.  Copacetic. Rebuild my church.  He did.  And he didn't really say, build a big church in my memory.  The little broken masonry falling down ones where the ones he liked to inhabit.  Everything is broken.  Buddha, everything is on fire.  

Change the water in the cat's bowl.  Does he prefer it washed, or just rinsed out.  Cat spit adheres to bowl for dry food after two visits to his own little cup of worldly sorrows and personal maintenance.  Hydration. Good for you.   Likened unto a plant, the kingdom of heaven.  Don't forget to water it.  Don't oversleep the tea leaves or there'll be bitterness.

Kitten scratching at the screen, the animating force of life.   Chuck has his mailbox keys now.  He's off to Walmart, with his son, unseen as I run out with hat and KN95 mask and barefeet down to the parking lot, suddenly invigorated by being outside, friendship restored after hanging out with him too late fresh back in town.

Scrap it all, who gives a fuck.  It is Nora who saves the manuscript of Ulysses from the flames, dear woman.  

Lots of seeds in this lemon.  Patience.  Paper bag of recycling, cans, largely, getting full to the top.  Lemon water steeps now.  A pile swept together on the floor, carpet could use a vacuum.  Boston Fern, a little water, same with the little stone pine.  The wine hampers the meditation.  Jesus did not mention this in performing the first miracle.  Are those mom's footsteps, yes...  Better go and head her off before she comes downstairs, maybe get her into the shower on the chair...