So, let's see.  Therapist Dr. Heather is moving to Rochester.  Two weeks ago this past Tuesday was when I found out.  Chef was in town, didn't have much time to think.  So I get on the bus for this what could be our final wrap, unless there are more pros than cons with the on-line therapy over the laptop.  I didn't think of any graceful parting words as I went into it.  The usual, pulled and pushed by the bus's G Forces in a tiresome way, walk from 23rd to 19th.    In and up through the elevators, fifth floor.   Okay.

So I begin with my tale of finding support, a condemnation of the bad book review from Kirkus Indie MFA playbook...

But my "I'm doing okay, with that, writing, nature meditation walks of peace, yoga..."  quickly evaporates.  The subject changes.  I've been living in my own little bubble, my own private little world, hiding out, retreating....  A pattern.  Of not going out and meeting your goals, not taking risks, not doing the work, as if I am too afraid...

She mentions the period of tumult.  She mentions the harshness of the Princess to beat back my efforts to open up and come out...  The hypercritical nature of people shouting at you when you want to be understood...  Trying to fit in is not easy.  Thus did I stay at my old place, as uncomfortable as it was, because the creature took it as "home."

There is a lot to learn from that, indeed.

How do you feel coming downtown here, she asks.  I don't know...  It just feels like its being out of touch with nature, everyone focussed...


Wednesday night with Satin Doll is the usual bugger.  The pop keeps coming.  I'm there 'til one, not easy, a long clean-up.  Sebastien appears at the bar, bald headed, suntanned from his triathlon training...

Thursday, okay the spider wound is healing, thanks to the dermatologist and Mupirocin hypoallergenic antibiotic cream and simple sterile pad held by cloth bandage tape.  But I need to get down for the appointment with my primary doc which I snagged the day before to get a Lyme Disease test.  The bus, dropping me off at Dupont.  I get there at 2:05, sign in, take my seat next the plants.  And I know full well, that the woman in her blues down in the lab in the basement leaves early, but I wait it out without saying anything.  Then, finally around 3 okay I can go back now.  First the intern, then the doctor, yes, sounds good, but she's gone home.  Darn it, poor old tired fool, Tranowski, dragging himself down there after waking from a long night, blood pressure high in his veins, and he's too polite to say anything, even knowing full well...

Why did I come here, down to my old neighborhood...  Glen's Market patio is full of interesting people having their meetings, a four o'clock beer or coffee...  and poor old Tranowski is chagrined, calling his mom, as it is that time of day, and already nervous about it while waiting for the doctor and the room with the high bench with the white paper on it.  And 'why does this always happen to me..."  I was sitting reading my library book, Being Peace by Thich Nhat Hahn and jotting a few lines in my yellow wire-bound legal pad with its pages stained from the wine bottle that came open when I tried to catch a bus, feeling the wetness as I tried to feed my wrinkled old two one dollar bills into the machine slot...  Fortunately the pages held, not sticking together, and I put my blue courier bag through a gentle wash that night, wishing I'd had more wine...  But, I knew I should say something, I knew it.

I make it up to the Rite Aid.  I put both of the two Cambridge Writing Pads with their blue covers into the plastic shopping bin.  Cool.  At least it hasn't been a total waste.  They're having a deal on V8 juice too.  Back to Glen's to shop, for some protein, and then to the tea house for some calming Moroccan Mint green loose leaf tea, and then hiking with heavy bags down past Zorba, the Metro, crossing Mass Ave to P Street.

Tired, not looking forward to being jostled by the bus, but it gets you there.  The bus comes.  And I can ruminate now further, how easy it is to be disqualified from good things, from convenient things, from helpful things, from good experiences, just for no more reason than a tendency to be shy and too much "polite."

And that one knew full well what could well transpire, the failure of getting done the thing you wanted to get done, this is another, even heavier, layer of misery and chagrin and hurt.   Ridiculous old pieces of meat, "hairy bags of water," as someone in Dharma Bums puts it, waiting around in a waiting room...


The world is suffering, indeed.  And I too am like a child trying to distract myself from it, though various escapes, to hide away from the pain of living.

I get in, put the little package of ground bison, the half dozen eggs, the duck sausages, the drinkable yogurt and the broccoli into the refrigerator and boil water for tea, make the tea, have the lamb gyro over salad from the downtown street vendor Vietnamese lady who says hello my friend in her particular happy little song way, and then it's nap time.

Now, my friend from work is encouraging me to go out and catch some Spanish DJs downtown (Flash) and it turns out I was able to get myself on the guest list through a new connection thanks to the Chef's visit here.  And Jesus is feeling very lonely again, and though he knows there is no escape from suffering, that one should not try to hide, he feels the need to go out, have a glass of wine or a few beers...