Buying a new shirt

It is a beautiful morning in Chicago: the sky is clear blue, the temperature is approaching 70 and predicted to hit 78, the humidity is 45% which for us is reasonable; thunderstorms are coming into the area this afternoon. It is a morning that I am doing my best to appreciate; Bach’s French Suites are being played on the harpsichord in my front room; there is a pot of Peet’s Aged Sumatra at my elbow; I am sucking the fibers from a pretty good orange out of my teeth; and will be getting dressed shortly. And I have no pain worth mentioning.

To celebrate this late spring morning I think I may commit an extravagance, I may never do the act but I am thinking about it. I own two short-sleeve sport shirts, one is a kind of Madras pattern on a fabric that wouldn’t fade if you soaked it in pure Clorox, the other shirt is a dark gray pattern with large white squares, also made out of indestructible cloth ; I have had these two shirts for at least four years, they have been all that one needs, one to wear, one to wash; it is like having two pair of shoes, one brown, one black–what civilized person needs more?

But I am considering the purchase of another shirt, a third shirt that will have no reason to be; the previous two have been working with satisfaction, can be washed in the evening, hung in the shower and be fresh and wrinkle free by breakfast. It is a mystery to myself why I would think of laying out another $5 or even more for a new shirt. I did something similar last month, I bought a third pair of jeans; usually I have two pair, one on the edge of being worn out, the other being broken in; now I own a third pair that causes confusion in the morning, a time when I am more easily confused than ordinarily.

Jeans come in blue, black or some shade of tan; mostly blue. Shirts come in uncounted colors, the colors are arranged in patterns that are beyond counting; so why would I venture into this maze of decision making? It would be a re-enactment of my visit to Bed Bath and Beyond, an adventure that took a week of recovery with the help of beer.

I now realize that there is a benefit to being married: spouse decides you need a shirt, the kids ask what to get dad for his birthday—and shirt appears, without angst or distraction from the important stuff of life. This operation is not available to the older unmarried guy; and only newly-engaged men ever go into Bed Bath and Beyond with a woman, veterans soon figure out escape mechanisms for when that subject comes up, as it does with regularity.

As the level of coffee in the pot approaches the bottom I approach a realization; perhaps I don’t really need to have a third summer sport shirt, I do have tee shirts, many of which are not yet frayed. Instead of going to the Target and seeing the selection they have purchased by the millions I could stop by the used book store down the street, have an espresso, find something good to read while sitting out in the garden. Isn’t that really a more civilized way to spend an early summer Sunday afternoon? One of my shirts is clean I think, I forget which one is in the laundry and which is hanging and waiting for me, there will be no question of choosing and re-choosing, I can leave all of that energy to looking into books that I haven’t read, or not recently. If both are in the laundry there is a tee shirt with just the right amount of fray.

One of the purposes of writing is to untangle human problems, I believe I have just accomplished that objective.

Odds and Ends

I feel that there are a few items that I might comment upon that I have left hanging:

The first has to be the continuing comments about MagicJack; there have been a few complaints that were similar to my own, more about the way that these people conduct business than the nature of the product; then there have been a couple of really funny comments by people who work for the company, I hesitate to call them lackeys or lickspittles because I don’t know them other than through their abject admiration for the guy who is steamrolling the company. I wonder if they realize that anyone in the world can read their devotional messages to The Great Chief? I was hoping that the whole issue was behind me, but perhaps it has a ways to go yet.

On a positive note: For those who have been following my fibromyalgia (now re-labeled rheumatism by me) the decision to go and see my internist, to tell him that I wanted alternatives to what was not working, was a good one. He wrote the order that I have a consultation at the Chronic Pain Clinic as I have written previously; the first visit was an evaluation, the second was a series of meetings with the different specialties involved in pain management. I will be visiting the clinic once a week for up to five weeks.

The change in medicine to Cymbalta continues to give me back the energy and stability that I had lost when taking Lyrica; the side effects seem to be some acne and a definite absence of activity between my legs. That last thing would be of greater interest a decade or two or three previously, but I turn seventy this fall. I have had little or no knee and leg pain, my rheumatism has been at level 2 or less since beginning this stuff.

There will always be some degrees of pain and discomfort, no one is arguing that that will be the case; this management is to minimize what can be reduced, and to stop the remaining pain from being such a big part of my life. The biofeedback part is new to me although I have been doing breathing exercises as part of yoga, the feedback takes it a step or two beyond those simple exercises. There are a group of physical exercises which have made an improvement in how I feel in general, pain reduction in particular. So that’s pretty much how that is going.

Again, the big point was that I decided to request alternatives to what had stopped working; that is always the case, I hear too many bitching stories from people who are waiting for the people in the white coats to open the magic box and release the instant cure. There ain’t no instant cures except in children’s story books, the people in the white coats wait to hear when the patient wants something.

I write this in the midst of doing three loads of laundry, something I would have not had the energy to do at one time just a few weeks ago. A thunderstorm is roaring through, dropping a lot of water and thunderbolts; Bach’s piano and cello concertos are going on in the other room.

That’s it from Chicago this Friday morning.

Another gray day

A gray morning following the gray day of Thursday, the forecast for today is gray; does this morning reflect a mood or does it cause it?

If the day was bright and warm, if birds were singing and people were out and around, doing spring things in the warm sunlight; if that was the day would a mood be different?

Both of the above are examples of my superficial mood, one that has no more substance than the underwear I put on today and the underwear I put on yesterday, or that I will put on tomorrow. I have automatically put on the mood of this gray, cold morning, I have let what is there determine what is here. I have forgotten earlier comments about the depth and layers of our being, that I am more than the superficial and shallow; when perhaps I am not so much.

There is nothing going on right now that is bright, nothing that will bring excitement or surprise; isn’t that the definition of a ‘gray day’?

I know that what I have just written is wrong. We are in a gray time, the only brightness in the sky comes from fireworks that last ten seconds before becoming a wisp of dirty smoke. The forecast doesn’t have promise, and that’s the way it is. Perhaps here is an opportunity to see the difference between a series of gray days and the defeat of depression; a chance to realize again that we are more than bright days and sunny beaches, that we have always been more than that.

I hope that beautiful weather will come soon, no one will enjoy being out in it more than I will; but if it doesn’t come soon or at all we will not be changed, the only difference will be putting on long winter underwear or light and roomy boxer shorts. Nothing more important than that.

A Piece of Marlin

Earlier in the evening I had driven a woman and her spouse in from O’Hare, returning from their Florida home; she was a most definite conservative, hated Hilary, was silent about Obama, knew that all Canadians hated their health care system, disliked the Senate, and had a need to give me exact directions to their home on the Gold Coast, most exact directions.

Now I was on my way to buy the groceries for my late dinner; I had in mind cooking a skinless breast of chicken, for want of anything else, it was half past eight, I had finished work early. Approaching the bus shelter on Damen, at Chicago Avenue, I saw that that woman was there again; she has been there for months now, not every night, but enough nights that I recognized her sitting there, since autumn. She was bundled completely: both feet sitting in a cinch-top garbage bag, tied at the knees; from there upward wrapped in a blanket that went high up the back of her neck, the hood of her parka had been pulled low on her face, I could see light colored mittens clasped in front. It wasn’t cold last night, a few degrees above freezing, and expected to drop into the mid twenties before dawn; it wasn’t a cold night for Chicago, unless you were sitting in an open bus shelter, and looking as if you’d be there for the duration. I made note of all of this as I walked by.

On my way to the poultry area of the supermarket, for my very predictable skinless chicken breast, I looked at what was left in seafood. The clerk there had taken the display apart, was shoveling the chipped ice out; there were a few packages of wrapped fish sitting off to one side, there was a single marlin steak among the other fillets; I hadn’t had marlin for so long I couldn’t remember, why not?

Before leaving the store with my vegetables, fish, and Newcastle Brown Ale I made sure that I had a $5 bill that I stuck in my jacket pocket. She was still there; I stopped in front of her, set down the bags in my right hand so that I could take out the bill which I offered her. She declined the money. I looked at her and said that it to buy something to eat, she looked back, smiled, said that she had just eaten, I replied that she could buy breakfast, she smiled again and said that she had some money thank you; the conversation was ended. A sweet and unaffected smile from the folds of blanket and parka. I wished her goodnight and walked home.

Pouring my first glass of beer I thought about dinner. Marlin has a lot of texture, some would say it is chewy, so I made sure that I would slightly under-cook it. I could watch the color change on the side of the steak, after it was cooked about one-third the way up I turned it over. There was an open bottle of salsa verde in the refrigerator; because the sauce was cold I needed to put it on the fish while there were a few minutes of cooking left, time for the sauce to warm. When the cooking was where I wanted it I put the whole sauté pan in the warm oven, finished boiling some small Dutch potatoes, that were put into the bowl of olive oil, crushed garlic, salt & pepper, and a small handful of chopped Italian parsley, that had been waiting in the warming oven.

I ate the fish directly from the pan; I was alone, the pan wasn’t a mess,(I was watching that Hoffman movie about the perfumer) eating it from the pan, on a tray was right. Fish,sauce, boiled potatoes and room temperature English beer made a good meal, not fancy, not difficult to make, just a group that went well together with a movie.

I thought about the two woman as I grew bored with the movie, it was a pretty movie, but predictable; the two of such different circumstances, within two miles of one another, on the first night of March in Chicago, the one at peace, the other not so much; I had another beer with dinner.

This morning I remember that soul at peace, the richness that was in her smile, the unaffected way she responded to my offer; she was more more than an allegory, she was the example.

What is down the road?

As I was reading a review of Shelby Steele’s book on Obama I recognized that notion of Obama going along that long road to find himself; that resonated with me, it is an answer to that oldest question ‘where am I going?’; it gives answer to the existentialist anxiety over meaninglessness, lack of direction, emptiness. Where I am headed is to find myself; for some reason that I don’t understand I am not complete, my definition is unfinished, my questions unanswered:but what really is the problem here?

There is the theory that we are separated from our essential being; I take that to mean that being before words and ideas, we were the animal that ate, shat and fucked; and still are that animal. There are some quite wise people who have said that we miss being that part of who we are, that part that was put aside when we learned to talk, to think, to know that we are mortal; those people go on to say that the power of the story of Christ is that he unites, redeems, salves that estrangement; and somehow that is what is behind the allegorical power of the story of Jesus. I have to keep reminding myself that the power of any great story, such as the bible, is the allegorical truth; literal understanding of the bible is food that cannot satisfy, it is as if eating only sugar. There is something most powerful behind that story, a reason that it has been referred to for all of this time, used in all manner of way, but used. Just as I disclaim any connection with Pfizer or the medical business when I talk of my experience with Lyrica; I am not affiliated with any church, creed, cult–I think of myself as a guy who is looking around, listening for what resontes.

That is a big question, it is something that requires a person, any person, all people to look inside for an answer; providing that a person finds the question resonates within, if there is no ringing, don’t bother reading any more. It is the resonating sound that makes me listen, wishing for more.

All of this on the morning after the Bon Jovi concert at the United Center, where there must have been close to a thousand limousines and exotic vehicles waiting outside the hall, to take the, strangely homogeneous, audience back home.

Sparrows are not so active this morning, with the temperature above freezing, the snow gone, the pressure to exist is lessened; there is a scattered few in the bushes, exposed to the morning sun, resting and warming.

Watching the parade

My intention this morning was to describe how I cook a whole bird; I started doing that, but realized that it is something that will take time and care to get right; I will be describing something, that is simple when observed, but in my inadequate words.

I decided to write this short post because I have come to make doing this a good part of my day, a way of starting forward, the stretching exercises after a night’s sleep.

This has been a particularly hard week of winter, not that there has been heavy snow or very low temperatures, it is just that this hard season persists. This has been a week where I have been the subject of criticism, not more than I can handle, just hard criticism from many corners; it continued through to about midnight as I finished driving a limousine, full of one family, who seemed to question every turn that I was making, passed judgment on every turn that I had made, wondered if I knew where I was going, and in the end told me that the car was dirty on the inside. And do you know what? I did make a wrong turn, I made two of them in that five hours they were with me; and there was something spilled in an ice box, some juice that a child had dropped in there previously, that I wasn’t aware of. That was the end of that day, this is the sunny morning of this day.

There were others: landlord, potential girlfriend, and someone who had once been a friend; there was a lot of criticism of me this week.

I can’t say what today will be about, I know that right now there is bright, hazy sun, that there is a big wedding to be driven this afternoon, that the freeze will continue, other than that who can tell?

I don’t find it easy to separate the good that I might get from criticism, from the hard effect it has on my mood; the former is good, the latter not so good. It is what I can practice doing today, it is why I am writing this post, I want to put it out there that I have this problem to solve, that it is just a problem, is not anything to be kept secret, just something to work on like any other situation that I come across. Having written that I feel a bit easier about the situation, it’ll take more work, but I do see with more objectivity the difference between what was said, and the effect that I make of it.

When I am sitting with Bert, out at the home, he often becomes agitated: something he can’t remember, something he can’t do, the prospect of what is to come; at those times I suggest that we just sit and watch the parade go by: nurses, always busy and focused; aides doing the hundred, not always pleasant, tasks they do over and over again; patients, in wheel chairs, with their various disabilities, the ones who needs to be belted on to a gurney, but who are always included in any activity for as long as they can stand it. It is all a passing parade, some of it interesting, some of it humorous, some of it sad, some of it fucking pathetic—-it passes down that hallway, as we sit and watch; my old friend of four months, and I, sit and enjoy the view; we both know that sometimes we are part of the parade, and sometimes we are bystanders.

Bert can no longer drink liquids, every time he wants a drink of water it has to be prepared by adding a thickener to the liquid, something that keeps it from sliding down his throat and gagging him; that is the way that Bert drinks nowadays, perhaps that is the way I will drink someday; but not this day. The worst that I know is I will have, is my own remembering of the criticisms of this week, their residual pain; Bert has a more difficult day ahead of him.

February 16 Fibromyalgia, Lyrica

Yesterday I sent a message to my internist saying that I had reduced my Lyrica dosage downward; I take a total of 225 mg. per day, 150 at night, 150 in the morning. Not too many weeks ago I had noted here that I didn’t think that I could go down from the 300 level, now I feel differently. I take acetaminophen on an almost regular basis, no more than 1,000 mg. per day. I started, in August, at 75 mg., moved quickly up to the maximum recommendation of 450 mg., then began this slow reduction.

There are two motives for doing this: The first remains that I don’t want to take any more medicine than I have to. That is why I stay away from the supplement counter at the drugstore, the innumerable recommendations of friends and associates, none of whom are healthier than I am. If a drug is needed I want a person in a white coat, who works at a teaching hospital, to write the order and attach a signature. The popular sneer aimed at western-medicine comes from a political or psychological need, driven by poor logic and an absence of science. The psychological need is one for control, the unexamined belief that one should take control, be in charge, fight the unpleasant, etc. The logical mistake is that one we were taught in Logic class, post hoc ergo proctor hoc;if my reader is a follower of self-medication that old logical fallacy is something you had better stay away from, it is about your fallacy.

My second reason for trying to reduce the dosage is the side effect; currently it is this feeling of fatigue that colors everything I do, or don’t do. It has destroyed my social life, not that my social life was a difficult target for destruction, but there was something there. I want to be rid of this malaise.

Dizziness continues at a low level, for short periods; it is far from being the overwhelming problem it was at the start of this therapy in August.

I continue to see what I call repairgoing on, I use that word whenever I write or talk about this, no one has come along to contradict me, so I continue with it.

That is my state of treatment as of today, it will change, I will try to make a record of it here.

A few degrees above freezing

The weather forecast says that we will have temperatures 6° above freezing today; tomorrow and the following handful of days will be below freezing again, but today looks like a good day for a walk. I splurged a small part of my tax return on a good hat, my first good hat, today would be a good day to take it for a walk, let the brim shield my eyes from the hazy sun.

It isn’t that previously the temperature was too cold to be outside, the problem was, and is, the ice on the walks, there is ice everywhere, there is new ice where the sun has warmed a section of concrete, melt-water freezes again when in shadow returns; there is also the ice that forms over old ice, water flowing over old and polished ice freezes. People walk around with their arms held out for balance, my ankles are sore from continuously handling the skids and bumps. I have a bad knee, a partial knee, it doesn’t like the twisting and skidding any better than the ankles; the knee was wrapped in the Ace bandage that was on my wrist, from that sprain last week. All of this is standard stuff of a long winter, one that has some ways to go yet; but today might be a good day for a walk.

I’ll let the sun warm the walks on the west and north sides of the streets, let the concrete absorb some heat and melt the thinnest ice, provide a dry path to navigate.

My neighbor just went down the walk to the garage, tottering, arms and hands held at a bit of an angle, she is wearing boots with a low flat heel, those high-heeled boots have become rare this last few weeks.

Partial sun comes through the haze, there is a Bach Double Concerto being played for me by a small orchestra in the front room, the coffee was made right this morning, and there you are. I have to keep remembering to stir the mixture in the French Press Pot, and stir it again; it is when I don’t stir it enough that I end up with a thin brew, find a reason to complain, although it was my oversight.

About 3 this morning I awoke with a case of the heebie-jeebies from a few things that I had been going on these last few days, nothing earth shattering, just a case of 3 a. m. heebie-jeebies that we have all experience whether we admit to them or not. I was feeling more and more uncomfortable, thought of getting up and watching some infomercials, or playing solitaire on the computer, something other than feel what I was feeling; then I remembered the mindfulness breathing exercises that I have been doing for about a year now–and damned if they didn’t work, it took about 15 minutes or so, my mind would wander for a while, the usual stuff.

I remembered all this when I awoke again, about half an hour ago, like stirring the coffee mixture, something that I have learned but don’t always remember right away.

I was reconsidering whether I should admit to what went on in the middle of the night; would Hemingway have admitted to something like that in print? Probably not, but then again, Hemingway ended up at the nasty end of a shotgun.

Sparrows sit in the bushes waiting, like silent accusers in some French movie, in dark suits and berets they sit, their silence and stillness displays their accusation–you have not put seed in the feeder. I do plead guilty, feel their condemnation, open my soul in abject guilt; another reason to dress soon and get out there.

That is the way of it all: Go for a walk on days when the walks are in better shape; remember to stir the coffee thoroughly if I want the best flavor and strength; face the heebie-jeebies by living in the moment; accept that the birds will be fed, not right now but in a little while, they don’t need immediate breakfast; if there is a favorite piece by Bach, then put it on.

On another note: I have to write a dirty letter to the MagicJack people, they are the ones with the $20 per year phone service over the Internet; the phone doesn’t working right, they have refused or are unable to make it work; they lied to me twice, and their technical service person hung up on me last night–yes, I was still being polite. I was polite and patient, hoping to work with them to solve the problem; they are a new company, with a new gadget, one that looked good. Lying and hanging-up just make everything worse. I am going to tell all my friends and co-workers who are waiting to see if this thing works for me–tell them how they handled a tough problem.

That is the right thing to do, don’t let it fester, don’t make more of it than what it is, and then move on; it’ll become one of those ideas that looked good, wasn’t, keep walking on the sunnier side of the street, enjoying the sun and today’s temperature, navigate the dry path.

I finally bought a hat

The temperature is low this morning, -4°F, winds are expected to gust up to about 30 m.p.h. The sun is bright, the sky is a clear blue, the bulky sparrows wait their turn at the feeder.We like this “wind chill” business, it lets us feel that we endure Siberian and Shackleton brands of cold as we sit inside centrally heated houses, watching the meteorologist detail just how badly we have it. This is sort of like buying a shirt with your favorite player’s number on it. Our wind chill right now is -24°F.I have been outside when the thermometer reads -40°F, I was north of Cochrane, Ontario in late February. Cochrane is as far north as one can go by road in Ontario, from there I went by train north, towards James Bay, about half way up the line was a place called Coral Rapids, I don’t think that it exists anymore. That kind of cold is different, needs no wind to imprint its seriousness, it was just fucking deadly cold .After I arrived in Coral Rapids I was told by several people that if I was out walking and began to feel sleepy, that I should knock on the first door I saw, house or office, tell the person who came to the door that I was feeling sleepy, they would take care of me. The sign of hypothermia is sleepiness, the body shutting down to preserve energy; lay down in that fat snowdrift, have a bit of a nap, it doesn’t feel so bad now, just a nice sleep, that long, long sleep.So much for morbidity: The low sun angle makes a great picture of bronze birds, branches and feeder, shining surfaces and deep shadows contrast. I am being reminded that I sit in a sunporch that is open to the outside, underneath this thin floor. The bright sun in my eyes, the cold soles of my slippers makes for an interesting morning, but a short lived one, this will get old after a while.I was going to write another post about how to face whatever fearful thing is available, overcome it, accept it, move on kind of piece; but maybe I have done enough of them. The idea I was trying to get across has been said for several thousand years, my recent ruminations are enough for now.I have been playing at arranging in some sort of system how I experience and understand revelation and the spiritual life; without success. This is the most slippery chore I have ever come across, it explains why there are so few theologians who have anything important to say. I knew a woman who was working on her PhD. in theology at the U of C, the average time for someone with a M. A. to get a doctorate there, was 5 years, that is a long time to figure out the addition she could make to our knowledge of the divine. I think that she ended up doing some kind of women-in-religion kind of thing, not quite the divine; but I do remember knowing a few woman who took me to heaven and to hell.The coffee is just right this morning, I shut my eyes and face the sun after a swallow of strong, fresh brew; I feel the effects on my body, the caffeine doing that wonderful thing it does, the heat in my belly.

I did buy a hat yesterday, went into a Western wear store in my neighborhood; there were hundreds of hats, most of them too cowboy for me, but then I found the area of felt hats from fedora to rodeo styles. Of all the hats there were only two that were my size, both the same style, one black, one mink (brown). I have a big head. (Many have said that, but used different phrases to express their estimate.) Now I own a Resistol, 4/xxxx beaver, “self-conforming“; and I love it. I have just put it on as I sit here, tilted so that the sun is blocked, the edge of the brim is at the top of my vision, it feels good, and I expect it to feel even better as the years shape it to my cranium.

I feel sad because I am coming to an end of the kind of writing that I have been doing, don’t know what I will write tomorrow; what I was saying has become redundant. I could write on food and cooking, but there are a million writers of that; what there aren’t many of is people explaining what is going on when one prepares food. I found myself that if I know the why behind anything then I do it better, am freed from the mindlessness of recipes, perhaps there are some who would read that kind of thing.

I continue to feel good about my visit with Bert yesterday, the purity of his welcome & thanks, the freedom to say to him “my old friend”; between us there is no history, no agenda, no reserve nor embarrassment. It is an experience unlike any other, I am fortunate each time, with each person that this connection occurs.

My left hand, wrist and forearm are wrapped in Ace bandage this morning, sprained from a fall on the ice; this will be the end of typing today.

It’ll force me to focus on thinking what I might put down here tomorrow.

I finally bought a hat

The temperature is low this morning, -4°F, winds are expected to gust up to about 30 m.p.h. The sun is bright, the sky is a clear blue, the bulky sparrows wait their turn at the feeder.

We like this “wind chill” business, it lets us feel that we endure Siberian and Shackleton brands of cold as we sit inside centrally heated houses, watching the meteorologist detail just how badly we have it. This is sort of like buying a shirt with your favorite player’s number on it. Our wind chill right now is -24°F.

I have been outside when the thermometer reads -40°F, I was north of Cochrane, Ontario in late February. Cochrane is as far north as one can go by road in Ontario, from there I went by train north, towards James Bay, about half way up the line was a place called Coral Rapids, I don’t think that it exists anymore. That kind of cold is different, needs no wind to imprint its seriousness, it was just fucking deadly cold .

After I arrived in Coral Rapids I was told by several people that if I was out walking and began to feel sleepy, that I should knock on the first door I saw, house or office, tell the person who came to the door that I was feeling sleepy, they would take care of me. The sign of hypothermia is sleepiness, the body shutting down to preserve energy; lay down in that fat snowdrift, have a bit of a nap, it doesn’t feel so bad now, just a nice sleep, that long, long sleep.

So much for morbidity: The low sun angle makes a great picture of bronze birds, branches and feeder, shining surfaces and deep shadows contrast. I am being reminded that I sit in a sunporch that is open to the outside, underneath this thin floor. The bright sun in my eyes, the cold soles of my slippers makes for an interesting morning, but a short lived one, this will get old after a while.

I was going to write another post about how to face whatever fearful thing is available, overcome it, accept it, move on kind of piece; but maybe I have done enough of them. The idea I was trying to get across has been said for several thousand years, my recent ruminations are enough for now.

I have been playing at arranging in some sort of system how I experience and understand revelation and the spiritual life; without success. This is the most slippery chore I have ever come across, it explains why there are so few theologians who have anything important to say. I knew a woman who was working on her PhD. in theology at the U of C, the average time for someone with a M. A. to get a doctorate there, was 5 years, that is a long time to figure out the addition she could make to our knowledge of the divine. I think that she ended up doing some kind of women-in-religion kind of thing, not quite the divine; but I do remember knowing a few woman who took me to heaven and to hell.

The coffee is just right this morning, I shut my eyes and face the sun after a swallow of strong, fresh brew; I feel the effects on my body, the caffeine doing that wonderful thing it does, the heat in my belly.

I did buy a hat yesterday, went into a Western wear store in my neighborhood; there were hundreds of hats, most of them too cowboy for me, but then I found the area of felt hats from fedora to rodeo styles. Of all the hats there were only two that were my size, both the same style, one black, one mink (brown). I have a big head. (Many have said that, but used different phrases to express their estimate.) Now I own a Resistol, 4/xxxx beaver, “self-conforming“; and I love it. I have just put it on as I sit here, tilted so that the sun is blocked, the edge of the brim is at the top of my vision, it feels good, and I expect it to feel even better as the years shape it to my cranium.

I feel sad because I am coming to an end of the kind of writing that I have been doing, don’t know what I will write tomorrow; what I was saying has become redundant. I could write on food and cooking, but there are a million writers of that; what there aren’t many of is people explaining what is going on when one prepares food. I found myself that if I know the why behind anything then I do it better, am freed from the mindlessness of recipes, perhaps there are some who would read that kind of thing.

I continue to feel good about my visit with Bert yesterday, the purity of his welcome & thanks, the freedom to say to him “my old friend”; between us there is no history, no agenda, no reserve nor embarrassment. It is an experience unlike any other, I am fortunate each time, with each person that this connection occurs.

My left hand, wrist and forearm are wrapped in Ace bandage this morning, sprained from a fall on the ice; this will be the end of typing today.

It’ll force me to focus on thinking what I might put down here tomorrow.