I'm getting both numb and maudlin; the combination is strange and not particularly appealing, like milk and orange juice swirled together in one glass. (Yes- I have tried that. Haven't you? How could any self-respecting lover of breakfast not preside over at least one marriage between these two morning stalwarts? The experiment wastes food but offers valuable lesson: some couples curdle one another.)
I go to bed tired. I wake in the morning tired. I devote large swaths of Internet browsing to attempting to ease the pain in my neck. I learn what my trapezius is, and how I am likely abusing mine, and how it is too late, far too late to do anything sensible about it. I put on weight. I abjure the structured pant. Outside, the pandemic is roiling and raging. Should I buy a scented candle? I am going to die; all flesh is grass; I am not sure a scented candle will be of much utility in any kind of grave/ afterlife situation. On the other hand, I would prefer the scent of pumpkin to the scent of not doing much of any cleaning.
Numb; maudlin.
What has happened this month?
We passed one-year anniversary of my father's death. I do regret not being there when he died. I knew I would regret it, but I stayed home anyway.
We learned we would be virtual schooling for the foreseeable. I was furious with the school board, but more on principle than out of any personal distress; W is kicking along OK.
W and I took a trip home. We stayed in an airbnb twenty minutes down country roads, the trees flaming, gunshots echoing through the hills. We donned masks and ran around with my family outside. My brother announced he is getting married. It felt lonely and strange, but also uncomfortably wonderful- like stepping out onto the ocean to view a lighthouse from the sea. I saw parts of my hometown I had never seen before and won't again. My brother is someone to someone.
There is a whole world outside my door; there always has been.
