Sunday

It's almost three o'clock, and I am only now signing on to my blurty blog. Pop came back this morning, a little after ten, and I am off-routine. This is what it is, I guess, not to be the captain of your soul: I am not bloodied, but my head is bowed. There was one interesting tidbit that I want to get down before I forget about it. I assume it was a student-loan agent or a telemarketer, given the odd businesslike 800 phone number, but it was a woman with such a soft touch in asking for me that Pop was moved to ask if he should call for me the next time such a call comes in. It was like a friend just asking if I was in and could come to the phone - no pressure, no call-back number, no sense of officialese. I told him that it was alright not to call, "I'm not expecting a soul." Yet, I could not repress the fantasy that it might be a friend, despite not having any friends. A particular person even came to mind: Lane. Of course, even if it was Lane, that would still be quite anti-climactic since she is a little older than I am. There's nothing here. It's all absurdity, the rawest fantasy. And one does feel a comedown with the realization: how nothing good & satisfying is even remotely possible, unless we can take away the last twenty-five empty years and make me young again with a future. Nevertheless, there was kind of an exciting feeling there for a couple of moments ... ... Ah, more rain. This saves me from having to make a tough decision, whether to mow this afternoon ... ... Feeling particularly low and blue, I changed my plans to stick with "The Myth of Sisyphus" for a while in the desire to knock it out a little more quickly, instead opting to go back to Mann's short stories in the afternoons and reading about his dog Bashan. Good thinking. Nothing like a good dog story to affirm your sense that life is worth living ... ... Pi says, "I got an idea for these bouts of restlessness, when you want to do something besides look at porn, and when you're not up to putting some time in at chess, and it is something to help you become more reflective: Surveys! I have a lot of survey questions that I can sort of interview you with." Ah, yes, I remember that. That used to be popular in the early blogging days. Just about everyone got into them. I never did. I liked the idea. I liked reading other people's answers. But I guess I felt that my mind moved too slowly to play along. Indeed, this in itself is likely enough to indicate my ... retardation of social skills, how I cannot synchronize with others, aside from unpleasant consideration of my looks, my class, whatever. But, anyway, let's start with a question now. Pi says, "What does the last text you sent say? And to whom?" Hmph, speak about social retardation. Yeah, I never did get into the 'phone revolution'. Not having anyone to call, or to call me, or to text, in addition to not having an income, there was never any need to get a cellphone. Daimon says, "I seem to recall a time when you had someone to talk to on the phone, a certain Floridian woman, during a certain dandelion summer, as you were wont to call it." Gabe. That's right. At the time, Pop's phone served well enough. As my social life never took root from that promising little experiment, the urge to have my own personal phone never developed. It sounds like fun though, for those who have a life. Beyond texting, you can send instant pictures, even videos. Indeed, you can ... sort of cam-to-cam, talk to each other and see each other live! But I guess texting might be more affordable. Maybe? Naturally, I never learned the details of those things, what the costs are and such ... ... Pop is hammering something. That always makes me nervous. What's he putting up now? Is it going to be something that further taxes my patience and sanity? Might it even be an actual existential threat? I cannot feel too secure when he is busy working on the house.