Sunday night, Monday night, Tuesday night...  the point is just to write.

God picks us out to do what we do by our DNA.  The entire universe of living rocks and atoms, and big bangs, and space, and voids, and dark energy, and then our own combination, that of flora and fauna, and then on top of that being built on God's image, to look back at the Universe with our own consciousness...

Somewhere in the night Monday going on to Tuesday, I pull an old stiff blue, the family copy, of Slaughterhouse Five, or The Children's Crusade.  I flex its old binding, gently, and begin reading, and it comes back to me.

Just write.  By the time he was writing that book he'd taught at Iowa.  He'd had a successful professional life, babies who became grown sons, a house on Cape Cod, a little daughter...

And he and his friends, for the life of them, they cannot remember more than a glimpse about the firestorm of Dresden when they were p.o.w.s.

Okay, and then it's going on the third shift Tuesday, wine tasting night, blah blah blah, at least one table, two women, seated at 56 by the bar express enough interest to receive the bottle discount of fifty percent, ordering dinner too, of the Saumur 2016 Chenin Blanc, a good wine but a hard sell.. The regulars at the bar express no interest in it, and it turns out into a gab fest, but with me the bullfighter trying to lead the bulls into some form of decisions as they talk, and eventually they do, and at last the bar is full... A touchy conversation about doing business in China between our Englishman friend and a lady who does business there turns out friendly, and she has lamb, after snails, after he had the parsnip soup, and after that, the trout.  Along with a glass of Muscadet, and she, telling stories of meeting Mandela, back when she was a journalist, my favorite red.  And we all become friends, even as the bullfighter sort of gives up.

The day had started with a call about Mom.  The maintenance guy in touch with everyone where Mom is, she had lost her way and needed a guy in a pick-up to get her back...  Oh, that's not good.  My head spins, I rest on it, talk to mom, sounds like she's doing okay, then I call her again after some rest, getting close to work, and then, on the way to work, and then at work, encouraging her to order to go from the Italian not far from her townhouse...

This is all strange.  What does it mean?

Well, my friend, you can imagine, by the time I get home after that day, I am put out, exhausted, I've been on my feet and talking for hours, the staff meal wasn't good and I had the runs anyway and had to take an Imodium, it was a struggle, as work is, and when the Uber guy drops me off, in the rain, exhausted, straight to bed.

Now, I am too afraid to admit all this.  Anxiety is high.  Even mom tells me to relax and have faith, even as I am trying to explain to her that she is home, that she doesn't need to move her cat nor her clothes nor her books to 'the other place.'

Some of us, yes, need wine to quell our unease.  And imagine, what Kurt Vonnegut Jr. went through in the Second World War.

I want to say, to my therapist, look, if you can help me as a friend, that would be great.  That would be the Christian thing to do.  But sitting here as a petrie dish...  my shit isn't going to change.  I do more effective work than you do, young lady, just that nobody gives me credit.  I need a sabbatical, because my shit isn't changing that much.

But every house is a church, just like it was in the earliest of Christian times.  And maybe this is one of the little self-evident points that comes out of reading the first chapter of Slaughterhouse Five, the protective wife, wanting old men not to tell glorifying stories of heroic battle, but rather, a woman wanting no more war, no more killing, ever...

This is the falseness we assign to the world, that a home is not a spiritual abode.  Or that offices too are void of the affection of our hearts for real things of love, life and peace, instead of obsession with the stupid foolish aggressive jousting contest of the miserable economy and the bleak blank blackness of its heart, the empty black hole soul, sucking us all in.  ...