So my back is sore so when I get up I take two advil, get some tea, a half a cup of leftover coffee from the fridge, last night it was Chinese food again, and so today I will have the energy to walk on a sunny day down to the Farmer's Market to get my meats so that I will continue to have energy.

I know it is stupid to write about this and about the making of meatloaf, but it was observed of Jimi Hendrix that he kept his guitar with him at all times possible, even while cooking bacon and eggs.  He wanted to be the best guitar player he could be, and this was how he kept it up.  Unplugged Fender Stratocaster in the loo, they would recall.  He liked the sound there, the acoustics.

Well, anyway...

Walking there, of course, I call my mom several times, and she called at 8AM, spoke with her, then again, as I waited for the ibuprofen to kick in.  I explain to her, again, why my back is sore, and she tells me that other people live through ragweed, basically to be a man about it, and just as she's about at the edge of a mood swing toward anger or whatever dark thing, the cat intervenes, as I can hear his little high pitched call to be let out.  Should I?  Yes, Mom, he'll come back.  He knows.  So when she goes to let him out, she says, hold on, don't go anywhere, but then she hangs up the receiver, fully at least, so it's not off the hook, and I got to get ready anyway for my trek.  It hurts to put socks on.  I have to roll back on the bed with my feet up in the air, though it's easier to put my running shoe sneaks on.  I change my ragged tee shirt, trying not to look like a total bum for the well-heeled clientele at the Palisades Farmer's Market...


The nature of reality...    This was what I have always been, being the son of my Dad, interested in.  And so maybe this whole Covid virus thing is to be seen in some perspective as far as what it might allow me to be.

It's like people who have a sense of humor in this world.  They have to curb it, otherwise they might interject, and while that might be funny, it would be considered inappropriate enough, at least in some circumstances, that one would get into trouble, and maybe even big trouble.

Capitalism, the whole system of it, has always been hard for me to embrace, as if I were blind to its basic logic.  What other system is there that works out?  We all are wary about the alternatives, Socialism, Marxism, Communism, and what kinds of political systems attached themselves in their power to such isms...


So I walk along, slowly, aiming myself gingerly up the sidewalk westward along the blue shining reservoirs with Canada Geese and ladies in casual walking little dogs and out with friends for a quick paced exercise walk, as I go carefully with my back and sort of down about feeling subjected to Mary Lincoln feminine maternal mood swings, and that would get to you too on some days, but it appears to be my lot in this life, as it is, and I keep on, crossing by the Lab School and then a firetruck comes up and turns to back up into the firehouse, and I'm almost at the CVS and maybe they have stamps.

And bravely I go, onward, into the land of pretty people, successful, owners, stylish, getting their produce and heirloom tomatoes and herbs, which I should have procured, but I'm low on patience and money these days, and I''m fairly single minded, though I do make a connection with a farm guy in a green tea shirt at the top of the hill as you turn around in the yellow taped one way line, friendly, and he has some plums which catch my eye.  Then it's down the hill, past coffee woman, a woman with dumplings and Asian noodles, who tells me what she has left today, but I'm fixated on the meats, the lady at Groff. Farms with the big blue coolers full of frozen meats and so forth... $45 later....  She was a waitress once, and I tell her, yes, I used to be, after I apologize for "riding her" in my order, reminding her about the stew beef...

On the CVS, for stamps.  Can't figure out the ATM.  There's a nice young man at the counter, yes, they have stamps.  No, you don't have to buy anything else.   The manager, when he comes over and opens a cash drop drawer with a key to pull out one booklet of USA Forever flag stamps, nods very unenthusiastically when I ask him, through the guy at the counter if they might be hiring.  At least it's in the neighborhood.

But I worked.  I worked hard.  For a long time.  I exhausted myself habitually with work, physical in nature.  Of course, yes, I could have been smarter, much smarter, and not pissed every opportunity away, but...


It's too damn quiet in this apartment, and I wonder, just how "Jesus or Buddha" you can be and get away with it.


So, I'm writing away.  I've recovered, as best I can, after being in some sort of back pain the last four days or so, down, just on the right side of the spine, I determine as I do my yoga, inside, with the best effort I can muster.   Some poses hurt more than others.  Raising my legs, on the way to shoulder stand, painful, had to stop.  Was able to do plough, somehow.

Then Mom calls.  And we have a nice chat, around 8:45, but somehow it turns into one of those "you hate me, you despise me," kind of conversations.  I was trying to tell her," look, mom, you had talents and you needed to use them.  You can't compare yourself with someone else's life, because each of us are unique, different, that's how God made us."  I tell her the story of how on the Steve Allen Show they wanted to do a dress rehearsal, for the whatever third time or so, a hundred technicians waiting, and Jack says, "no, Steve, I can't do it," more or less, and walks out.  And when he, Kerouac, comes back, bam, he nails it.  (You can kind of sense the earlier irritations he went through, them doubting him, as he held his artistic integrity whole...  He knew how to do it.  He had this sense of himself.  The divine spirit, as we've talked about before, you might say.)

I thought things were going reasonably well.  But then somehow Mom is telling me now how I've devastated her, and that's she's going to bed (but will probably not sleep.)  I'm just a stupid woman.  Other things.  Jesus Christ.

Anyway, so that takes the wind out of my sails for a moment, after my day of the limping off like poor campaigning young JFK, climbing the stairs of tenement buildings in Watertown, one foot up, then drag the back one up, as I get my sustenance for another week.


Jesus was nice to everyone.  A kind and funny guy, well spoken, insightful.  Who could have a problem with Him?  But that wasn't enough for some people.  Because, as they found out in the Garden, you shouldn't pretend to know more than you can, you can't be so proud that you stop listening....