Another non-manic Monday is just beginning in These titles mean nothing.

I’m here. Between jig saws and notebook jottings. Somehow I’m sharing it with Frank Sinatra. Who would have thought? It was a very good year. All my bright tomorrows belong to you. And a whole wheelbarrow full of lyrics. Many romantic. Many with a bit of perhaps significance. I’m not a huge fan of his, but it’s hard not to think of vintage wine from fine old kegs, from the brim to the dregs.

So anyway, that’s where I am. My head is full of half formed thoughts. Of ways to reach the past, ways to anchor the present. Don’t worry. It will be ok. The migraine headache medicine ads will remind me of everyday life. Tell me Frank.

I’ve been thinking of my on-line guys. Bobby of course who I could put in my obit as the love of my life if only I knew his last name. He was golden. He called my a goddess once. Hard to beat that. Even if it’s only imaginary.

I decided not to go to writers group this month. I talked to Zelpha - who has a last name that I remember. She runs the thing and I was offering to make reminder calls notifying people of the meetings - but this month I just don’t want to. So I’m not going to make calls or write my thing or go. It feels a little freeing to decide to do that.

Jim is a little upset. Both my kids want me to go to writers groups. It’s the only thing I do. The only thing that gets me out of the house except for grocery shopping and doctors appointments. They think it’s good that I do SOMETHING. They are probably right but this month I’m taking off.

I have this week marked on the calendar as Democrat Convention. In Chicago. I’m not going to that either. It’s funny. One year when I was pretty active in the local organization, son John wanted me to try to go to the convention. He said he’d go with me. My kids have always had ambitions for me. It’s touching.

I was just remembering the sunny fall day in 1975 when I came home from my first day at my old old old job and 8 year old Jim asked 29 year old me if I’d made any friends at work. They’re always trying to make something of their mother.

I’m 78 now and this is the year I plan to die. I have until next June. I turned down the pills my brother offered me across the console of the little BMW. It must have taken a bit of effort for him to offer them to me. I’ve wondered since if it was the right decision. I could have taken them. I could have stowed them away against some future need. I could have lost them like my vibrator. And now we’re back to Bobby and Sinatra and middle of the night.

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Too many I’s in this entry. But what do I write about other than myself?

Last updated August 19, 2024