Lane

A dream of Lane, from graduate school days. What a pleasant surprise! In my plunge down to even greater depths of loneliness, my subconscious seems to be reaching deeper into its resources. I like it, but there is not very much happening with it. This dream is pretty thin and brief. I seem to be in a crowded fast food joint. I have a booth to myself, and Lane comes to sit with me. I cannot begin to recall the reasons, but I got up to sit elsewhere. I moved to a booth in front of a TV, which could be the reason, though it is quite a move to favor the TV over a beautiful blonde. Then, wonder of wonders, she comes to sit beside me. At this point, I am sure it will not be long before I am putting my hand on her bare leg (she is wearing shorts). I mean, she is asking for it, right? But I wake up before that happens. Like I said, an almost nothing dream. Lane makes it a little special. Of course, it is not like I am pining for her now. She must be around 50 herself, though no doubt still rather lovely for a fifty-year-old.

Such dreams seem to merely sharpen the regret for the life I never had. Maybe it would be better if I did not have such dreams, but, in truth, I treasure such a dream and wish there were more - more of these dreams and more in them. I savor that sharp little pain, which at least makes me feel more alive.

Drizzle

It started to drizzle this morning, despite there being absolutely no rain in the forecast, and this was enough to get Coco in the house. Ash, on the other hand, is made of sterner stuff and stayed on the patio. Sammy is gone, off to wherever. Playing around with Coco, I scoop her up from the floor. "Look what I got! I went fishing and caught a cat. Are you a fish?, a little catfish?"

It's another overcast morning. That autumnal shifting. September. It's nice.

Reading Life

Before taking up the last chapter of the Lincoln-Douglas debates, I am going to spend a couple of days going through the news and magazine articles that have been piling up on me, culled from my news-browsing. I have been having trouble finding a place for them in my daily routine. I think I will take them up during breaks from my non-fiction, or weekday, reading - between parts or chapters of a book, whenever it feels convenient to me. Since I still need a book to read, I'll take up Shakespeare or poetry, or else I will read through my hardcover journals. I don't feel good about reading a non-fiction book when I am reading non-fiction articles, since the rhythms and feeling of the thing seem too similar, so that I fear it will be too difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. I am going with "The Merchant of Venice" for this round.

Pop

Pop came home from his medical appointment. He complains, "My leg hurts like hell, but the doctor can't find anything wrong with it!" He is in the kitchen and I am in the big room, and I do not say anything. Too much time has passed when it comes to mind: "Old age, Pop. As even I have come to appreciate, things just hurt more." I keep it to myself. Whatever pain he is feeling, at least it does not seem to cripple him.

Elephant Ears

Pop comes into the big room to bitch about the water bill. I didn't think we were going to be hearing that this year, since there are no elephant ears, which means considerably less watering.

Actually, the elephant ears are still there, but they lie dormant under the earth. I meant to dig them out by the root when they started growing this summer, but the plot is so well carpeted with grass, and I am as lazy as ever, that I decided to just treat them as a specie of weeds. I just mow the ears down with the grass. It seems to work. In fact, I haven't really seen the least sprouting in a while. It's true that I have been mowing more, hence denying them an opportunity to grow, but maybe the grass is so well carpeted over the plot now that the ears cannot break through the surface.

I have not really missed the elephant ears. I guess I am too happy to be free of that daily watering chore. I did like the ears, though, when we had them. They were kind of nice looking, and it can feel nice to prune them and keep them good-looking. I am glad that I had that experience in my life (14 years!), and it is thanks to mother - they were her plants. I am not a gardener, though.

Borgia

Pop got the big room this evening, and choosing what to watch with my dinner on the office computer, I went with another episode of "Borgia". I have a tendency to let that show slip away from my notice, as it has gotten rather old for me, despite the nudity and simulated fucking. However, I enjoy the show more when a week or two has passed between episodes anyway. Then, it's hyper-action, super-revved up plotting, comes across as genuinely suspenseful. On the other hand, they have avoided playing the sexploitation card lately; I'll finish it out, though. I'm halfway through the last season. May as well see what they do with it.

Late-Night Ice Cream

A late-night snack. Ice cream. I really don't like doing that. It was to avoid this that I happily opted to change-up my routine in favor of enjoying a late-afternoon snack and then a late dinner at around eight or nine o'clock, so I wouldn't be hungry late in the evening. It didn't work today, though. I guess that chicken sandwich, with pretzels, didn't cut it.