I worked a six hour shift today, a long one for me, starting at ten, which is early for me. Got off a half hour early, and the apartment was empty when I got home. Tom and Heather may be out, or they may be moving things. I suspect they are not moving things. It’s a holiday weekend. Tom has mentioned he is short on cash and is juggling expenses to get into his place. I though that he had already paid for it, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe I will have a roommate longer than I had anticipated.

I was going to watch my last movie for the week, Notes on a Scandal, but I’d already seen it. I picked it out because it had a score by Philip Glass. I picked up the DVD box, scanning the cover, trying to remember having seen it before. But I know what happened. When I was getting my movies by mail, they came in little plain envelopes, so I didn’t recognize the movie I saw on the shelf. So I put it away, turning back to the rest of the evening, turning back to wrestle the dusk with tired eyes.

It’s an uneasy feeling I’m left with after the third day in a row of 100 words not accepting my daily offering. I am assuming that it is a problem with month-end processing and that everyone is experiencing it. I’ll write anyway and tuck the darn things away in my computer for the day it opens up. Perhaps after the holiday when the proprietors return to find that they have complaints in their mail box. If it’s not repaired by the sixth of the month, I’ll drop my own complaint in the mail box. I’m sure it is nothing personal.

I am just not going to think about it. If I don’t think about it, it doesn’t hurt. It’s as simple as that. And the thinking doesn’t help a bit. The writing about it doesn’t help. Talking about it doesn’t help. It’s like running through the woods. You dodge the trees and you don’t get hit in the face. I remember my father telling me after either my first or second divorce, “Next time son, don’t lead with your chin.” It’s an interesting concept. I understand the words. I just don’t know any other way. I am what I am.

It was rainy this morning, and is this afternoon now. I slept nine and one-half hours last night, and remember hearing Michael Jr. passing by on his motorcycle on his way to school this morning. I remember it in half sleep because it didn’t wake me completely. He has taken the baffles out of the mufflers on his Ninja 500, creating a distinctive sound. There will come a point where I do not hear him at all when he passes. I hope it is not too soon, because I like the sound of him passing through my world that way.

I watched another movie last night, The Departed. A number of people had recommended it. It looked like it had possibilities, with Nicholson, Dicaprio, Damon, and Wahlberg. And I don’t know, several other major holly men I don’t recall. Everyone gets killed in the in. All the major characters. I guess it was supposed to be a swipe of life. I’m not sure of the moral message unless it was if you are black you are fucked;, if you are Irish you are fucked; and if you are bad you are fucked. I guess that pretty well sums it up.

I can hear the apartment maintenance people scraping and cleaning the apartment next door. They have been working on it for a week now. The couple who moved out had lived there for years I believe, Sheila and Franklin, and their son who everyone thought lived here. it must cost a lot of money to prepare an apartment for a new renter. I have been here two years myself now, and am likely to be here a third year. I don’t ask for much attention unless something quits working altogether. They must like having me around. They’re certainly nice to me.

I feel like I have been hiding from this place. But I don’t think it is true. Yesterday was a difficult day following a difficult night. I start the writing part of today checking out 100 Words and find myself reading through Mathew’s stuff. I sent him an email congratulating him on finishing another month, and I saw in his reply he was in Charlevoix, possibly at the Hemmingway convention. He had invited me to join him, I had planned to, but I could not. I am getting better. I am much better, but I am not that much better.

Taking a break here I see my med boxes and realize that I haven’t taken this morning’s dose. The morning took off quickly. I got some sleep. I needed some sleep. I felt good. I am momentarily confused about that, about whether I need the meds, although I know I need the thyroid. And I am a little confused because I read I am not to take thyroid with vitamins, or food, or antacids, and there are vitamins in the little box. Shaking my head, I cram the handful of pills in my mouth and come back to the keyboard.

I got up too early and I had gotten to bed too late. I was so sleepy I was swaying on my feet. Bob called to say Amanda’s car was ready. I took a shower and walked to Bob’s. I was thinking to just keep the car for the week. It’s an ’88 Cabriolet and is fun to drive any way. It’s about a 20-minute walk to Bob’s Tire and Auto. Amanda called as I was walking and I offered to drive the car to her in Lansing that morning. “We can have lunch when you get here,” she said.

I was at daughter Amanda’s apartment tightening the lug nuts on her new tires when she appeared with Dallas, the golden retriever. Amanda got Dallas out of the divorce. I was supposed to have gotten Dallas as Terry abandoned ship to her travel-the-world job while I sorted out the kids, pets, house, and myself. I was too busy to see that she was bailing out and was dumping everything on me. I thought I was dumping on her. I was sick. I had quit/lost my job, I’m not sure which. I guess I quit because I couldn’t work any more.

Did she throw me out because I was sick? She was worried about that, about my telling people that. “You’re not going to tell people I threw you out because you were sick, are you?”

“No, why would I do that?” But my brain was spinning with this. I mean, well, that IS on way I could tell myself the story. There are so many ways to tell a story. But the sad fact was that the one thing I had wanted more than anything was for her to please stop coming home on weekends. Just stay in California, please.

I am hungry now, and I take a break to eat some of the omelet left over from my brunch with Amanda yesterday. The whole thing was left over. We went to the International House of Pancakes, and the pancakes, orange juice, and Amanda’s sausage alone were enough to fill me up. I had two cups of real coffee. Between the coffee and the sugar I was left feeling that falling down jittery strung-out-with-no-sleep feeling like I was leaning out over an abyss, my head a balloon, and my body a broken stick mended poorly in the middle with tape.

Amanda was driving me back to her apartment, when she puked it out. She hated her apartment. She said that right after we got into the car, and she repeated it five minutes later. But it wasn’t the apartment bothering her. “My roommate is making me crazy,” she said. “Her boyfriend left, and whenever he leaves, she gets crazy.” I was sorry to hear this. I suggested a room in a house, or something like that. She mused about it, saying her boyfriend might be buying a house next year. But for now, she has already signed another one-year lease.

Tom came in last night in a rush, trying to rent a car moments before the rental agencies closed. He was trailing a dozen other demons and furies, and I tried to fix things, drowning myself in the process such that I was in tears in a restaurant with him a couple hours later. I had it that bad three times last month. It is a warning to slow down and take things slower, and perhaps to take fewer things. I tried to tell him the same thing about his own stress level, but it wasn’t sticking to his head.

I hit a couple garage sales this morning. I got five 8-by-3-inch candles for two bucks, and a couple very heavy hooded sweatshirts for four bucks. Michael junior likes to “borrow” my hoodies for the winter. I left him a phone message telling him we had two new nice ones. Tom called while I was out, telling me he had sorted out some of his problems. I think he was trying to ease my mind as much as anything. I think he has realized the extent to which I take on and try to solve his problems. It’s my nature.

I had thought to go to Ohio to visit my parents today, but my therapist still advises against it. She says I need rest. I know I need rest. I need many things. I think I want to go to Ohio. I feel like I should go to Ohio? It is a thing I decided I would do periodically and now I find myself not doing it, not out of neglect, but because I cannot? And why? I could possibly verbalize it. I don’t want it to be true, so I go to Ohio so it will not be true?

Terry called. The Ex. I should not answer my phone when Terry calls. How many times have I said that? Why do I continue to answer my phone when Terry calls? Because I simply forget. The call was just her wanting me to do some things that she would not have time to do for me if I were to ask. Maybe I will ignore the call and maybe then I’ll get another phone call from her where she will begin to get ugly, but life for me is getting to a point where Terry cannot touch me any more.

Tom called yesterday noon. He wanted me to take him to the airport to rent a car. He has been unable to save enough money to buy a car, and his credit is lousy. He has been renting, but now finds he is going to have to pay over a thousand dollars to rent a car for 19 days. He is complaining about this. I lent him my car, but he brought it back. He can rent more cheaply at another place, but their hours are nine-to-five, and he feels he cannot take off work. I don’t completely understand this.

I called Michael Jr around noon, asking if he wanted to go get something to eat. He had other plans, but said he would be home for a while, so I took a car load of his things over to him to clear some space in the spare bedroom. Tom is moving in for a few weeks. I delivered a TV/VCR, 300 records, 50 video tapes, and an assortment of other things filling four packing boxes. It didn’t make a dent in the spare bedroom. Every day I throw something out. There are just a lot of things in there.

I got five movies from Blockbuster yesterday. The last time I did that I watched two of them and returned the batch late. I think I will do better this time. I plan to watch some movies this week. It is restful if I don’t get myself into a movie that I find disturbing for some reason. Unfortunately, I never know what that is until I get there. Last night I watched Pursuit of Happiness, and I found that a little disturbing. The man was killing himself to get to where I left. Happiness is unique for each of us.

I’ve been spending my spare time with Alan Watts lately, but I am coming to associate him with the greasy horror of King Tut’s treasures. Alan does not reassure me about the after life. He would say I still cling to the ego too much. I would answer, Yes, Alan, I do cling to these things. Time for a “duh.” I have not found Alan to be any more comforting than Presbyterianism. Of course he would agree with that. He would say I will not find peace until I stop looking for it. I don’t need Alan to know that.

I remember once buying and reading a ten or twelve gilt-volume set of the works of Vivekananda. I gave them away when I was done reading them. That much I learned from Vivekananda. Something like that I also learned from Thoreau.

I have not heard from my other son, Michael Jr. for a while. I should call him this afternoon and see if he would like to do lunch, or if he would like me to bring him some more of his clothes and papers. I should call him and remind him he still has a father who loves him.

Today is Daniel’s birthday, my grandson who I have not seen for over a year. I’d like to see him, but I know that I cannot, that the phone will not be answered, and I will be driven from the door. Tom called yesterday saying he had heard Daniel’s mother Carrie was taking Daniel to North Carolina. “What do I do?” asked Tom. “Call the Friend of The Court,” I said. “Maybe, that’s a good idea,” Tom mused. I think it is time Tom considered putting Daniel’s mother in jail. I know she would not hesitate doing it to him.

I’ve moved everything I can from the spare bedroom. Tom can use much of what is left. There is the gun cabinet. Even though I have given the automatic to Tom and the shotgun to my nephew, and there are still guns left. I can’t get rid of the rest of the guns my father gave me. So I carry them around with me. Like the cradle he made. And there’s the table saw still stashed at Terry’s house. See, I do have things for a storage locker. I just don’t think it is worth the thousand dollars a year.

I took off the nicotine patch last night and finally got to sleep, sleeping wonderfully until the chain saws woke me around ten o’clock. They are taking down a lot of dead trees around here. I believe the storm last month woke management to the possibility that someone could get hurt while they were letting nature take its course with 100-foot tall dead trees. I will miss the one outside my window and across the road, the one with the broken arm pointing out over my shoulder. They haven’t gotten to that one yet, but I think they probably will.

Tom is sleeping late. I had told him last night that I’d try to not make any noise this morning, so I popped under the headphones, plugged into my computer and grabbed a Rhapsody recommended track of music. That’s one of the things I like about Rhapsody, the ability to explore an immense cyber library of music in high quality. But the Rhapsody pick this morning is a bunch of singer/songwriter things from thirty years ago about love gone wrong in various ways, about recovering from love gone wrong, and I find myself listening to the lyrics of these poems.

I can more or less keep moving. I can keep typing, pretending I am WRIting until my eyes refuse to cooperate anymore. That doesn’t take too long. Then I can shut my eyes and continue typing, because I can type without even looking at the keyboard. I become a wonder, the man who never stopped typing. Look he’s been typing for 62 days non-stop. What is he typing? We don’t know. He would have to stop so we could print it off. We assume it is deep and meaningful. Perhaps it is gibberish. That would be meaningful too, wouldn’t it?

I don’t feel like going out to eat. I don’t feel like cooking. Fact is, I don’t feel like eating, which everyone says is a bad thing. So I should go eat. Perhaps I will wait for the mail and then run a couple errands and get food while I am out. That would not run me off my schedule too much, whatever that schedule is these days. It is raining. So, I put on a rain jacket, take an umbrella still go for a walk. I will take my walk. If it is in the rain, so be it.

Junior has essentially established himself as the alpha male at the house, something I was never able to do with his mother. That is part of why she wants to sell the house, I am sure, to get out from under the stress of the whole thing. She was supposed to send me papers to sign a couple weeks ago, but never did. At least I never got the papers. Maybe she was overwhelmed at the thought of what I might do when faced with the papers. She is human. She must have her own batch of anxieties and Whatiffs.