All you can do is try to write.

Things go through my mind quickly.  There are themes, but I have to be very quick to catch them.  I will remember them, but it's hard to get all of them down.  Something about time.  Something about the translation to a medium that other people might potentially see.  When the camera turns on, awkwardness comes forth.

Things run in currents.  Of late they have been involved with worries, a sense of insecurity.  I was paying rent.  Then the pandemic came along.  And suddenly it's more painfully aware, not having work itself to keep me occupied, my vulnerability here.  Where's all my stuff going to go, should I lose my income...

Income comes from career.  You can't mess around with those.  You have to be on top, and organized.  It's your career.   Go with what you're given, opportunity...  college.   Great teachers.  People to initiate in habit and in life.  Friends.  Go with them.  Treat them well and they will treat you well.

And I haven't always done that.  I've worked as a bartender;  it's intense sometimes.

I go and help mom out, but without a career, I can only do so much.  And now with no job...

How many calls from Mom today?  I got her groceries through Instacart.  The shopper waited for a fresh Southwestern Rotisserie Chicken, along with the cat food and the Saltines, the Pepsi, sharp cheddar cheese, a buffalo chicken quesadilla and a chicken caesar wrap.  Then mom starts to get impatient, calling back.   She says she has to keep the cat upstairs, otherwise he'll run away, and he's never lived her before, and I correct her, the cat knows where he is and what he's doing, where to go, how to get back, he knows.


But has a great sense of pointlessness arisen as I gain on meditating, in lotus pose or in corpse, or in tree, sometimes, the pointlessness of writing.  Is this giving part of the brain something it needs to do, as work, as an outlet, or is it rumination, weighing me down, as it were.  I don't know.

After the series of phone calls, mom inviting me over for dinner, and maybe I can take her home later, home home, her real home, it doesn't feel so great being alone.   Meditation is slow going anyway.  I unroll the yoga mat I take outdoors, here on the rug, do some poses, then some meditation.  But I am distracted.  The phenomenon of Tom of Finland's homoerotic art, an article found in NY Times, yoga and chakra being very intimate a part of physicality.  And, not that I did much, but I feel tired out again, waiting out what our fates are as far as unemployment, speaking of fearful things.

I've waited too long to do something with my book.   Ten years it has been.  I'm on the Jack Kerouac path, again.

So, wow.  Just wow.  Dad dying, moving out of George's, mom...  It's been a run.  And I spend time alone now, and that seems okay, absorbing.

Then the bill coming for the ER visit for my finger, five stitches, have to pay the deductible first, it seems.

And I would have made a great college professor, a kook.

The way to contentedness is not craving for anything.


The plumber has been in the building all week.  Getting the gas going again after a leak.  "A lot of people losing everything," he says.