This is a hard time to write.  The sense of needing to look for a job, concern over an aging parent, not to mention having to take a long look at one's own situation...  all caused by the sloth that is the writer's life....  Because I've made no decision, stood for no clear choice, not really entitled to anything more than a by-stander's career...



I'm feeling lost, without the bar to go to.  I admit it.  The space.  Fifteen years, your brain gets used to it.

And as far as the professional world goes, I am a child, an id, who feeds himself, goes for walks, but does little to help people out in the real world.  For that, yes, takes work.


The apartment is cluttered.  Books.  Piles here and there.  Some in boxes.  Not the energy to sort it out.

I clean out the bottom of the refrigerator and its bins, something having spilled, chocolate milk leaking out of a container while I was away two months.  Isolation is not fun.  Yeah, this is the consequence of the attempted living of a spiritual life, right...  There's no way to beat the system, the economic positioning of human beings...  You sit around with your books, drink some wine, great, but it's not going to get you anywhere.


I took a walk around last night, after writing down some of my thoughts, but even nature and the river at night had a useless feeling to it, a void.  As if to say, "who cares, go back to your own world, which obviously you have neglected..."

Write a resume, spring into action, serve in a school, be a clerk...  Rise above being an undesirable,  the uselessness of one who is little more than being a friendly guy for a profession.  Time is money, and opportunity, right?


Gradually, incrementally, I try to get used to the apartment again.  I try to be a human being again, back to before it all got hi-jacked, years and years ago, the restaurant business, and before, my own failures as a college student.  What can be salvaged...

I made friends with the trees again, and they had changed in two months.  The fields in the parks were mowed, and I walked barefoot in them again, and did basic yoga, warrior, tree, putting my feet up while lying on my back, and when side to side holding the legs together, good for the liver, and then a quick head-stand after sun salutations, as the mosquitoes, smaller than usual, and with more pronounced striping on their hind legs were starting in.  It contented me to be looking out over the river again, over at the Virginia side.  Another war of division going on.   A division less defined, but just as palpable.

Many emotional identifications come through me, and I had experienced many since moving in early in March in 2019, after living with good old G. for so long over there off of Embassy Row.  You have to let them come through you softly, and the yoga had opened up the channels.  I remembered the snow falling on the Elm Tree, the street wet, a bus going by, as I sat there waiting for the bus in the other direction coming so I could eat something.

Tonight, the pinot noir from Bouchard Anie et Fils, $12.99, 2018.  I felt less confused somehow.  Maybe life prepares you in steps, first this, then that, and when you're ready for the next thing, well, here it comes.




So, after three soaks in epsom salts, pressing down, a tiny chard of glass is finally raised out of the flesh of my heal, a week or so after.   Fresh blood come out, but not much.  I bandage it up again, go for a walk, gingerly stepping forward, out of the apartment.   The index finger, I can get away with a gauze pad taped over it.  But with the combination, both wounds on the left side, with the bandage care, it slows me down.  My finger is still slow, too thick to bend.

But I feel like a big bum when I wake up.  What to do?