Why do I write this?

 

This morning I woke from one of my four 2-hour naps. The step-by-step walk down the hall, wash my hands and check that is the same guy in the mirror, turn on the water for coffee even before the sun comes up, then back to check the time and curl up in the sheet.

After the wild warm blow last night with a lightshow and a bit of wet rumble rocking on the porch, it was a good sleep (even with the dreams about broken toilets).

Once the eyes open and stay focus on the wall, I swing my legs over at the dawns early light. Repeat the pattern, but this time pull out some pink packages of faux sugar, small spoonful of faux cream and small spoonful of faux coffee covered in hot water (not stirred) and stumble into the sunroom’s computer. This isn’t a red sky morning but it will be sunny as a spring day so the bird’s songs say. I check the window to see who is parked and see some motion across the street.

Bun-Bun is awake and exploring. The birds were right.

No mail but junk mail. No new messaging or comments of note, so I heat up an egg and Canadian bacon croissant and pull out the jug of OJ. Awaiting the ‘ding’ from the microwave I see the broken branch has lowered in the wind last night. Tom (the neighbor) will take care of it as he has the front area clean-up before; besides if it falls it will be on his car.

After my breakfast in the morning light and searching reliable news sights for something other than disasters and body counts (and Trump), I crawl back to a horizonal position and let my innards digest last night’s salad with this morning’s warm water to clear out the plumbing. This is what elders think about.

When the time is right, there is a surge of energy to layer on cotton clothing, strap up rubber shoes and head outside. Pause in the sunshine to appreciate the sounds and smells of the morning.

The plans for the day are the same as the plan was yesterday (even in the rain) and the plan tomorrow. Climb on the pony for a 2 ½ mile ride to the Tummy Temple, mile walk around the enclosure picking up whatever catches my fancy, the back home to feed the yard and enjoy their antics.

The rare project will get my attention until it is time to check the mailbox and rock on the porch. Pretty simple.

I’m become interested in my pattern of talking to myself. I don’t just comment like walking into a door and spilling my coffee. “Nice Cliffie” (in an English accent). Now, I have conversations with people who are not here. Sure I talk to the birds and squirrels and bunnies, but these are conversations that are answering questions not asked in person or stating opinions never mentioned face-to-face.

Being a hermit, there are fewer and fewer conversations with another human being. It is difficult to unpack years into a ten-minute conversation.

Those moments when Henry Fonda sits in an old rocking chair on the porch in the evening and says something profound to little Johnnie and Mary are long gone. Just send me an e-mail grandpa (if you know how).

Have you been to therapy? You make an appointment with a professional who will listen to your problems and direct you to a possible solution. The 50-Minute hour they call it (I ‘almost’ second majored in Psychology, but I didn’t want to listen to people’s problems all day. Drawing pictures was easier).

Now some like to use friends for therapy. Tell you woes over a couple of beers and take their advice. At least you feel better getting your grips off your chest. Ask any bartender why they don’t get paid more to listen to all the groaning. Partners must realize so much of the time will be supporting and comforting. Religion is based on spreading the word of peace, but no one is listening. Walk up to a stranger and tell them your grief and get a punch in the face.

You can drown your sorrows or take time alternating potions but reality always comes back. This morning was a start of another day, no questions asked. Without any requirements like family or work, it is a roll of the dice. Let’s see what comes up?

So why do I write this?

That was the question.

At first it was just an experiment in posting stuff online. Then is became a journal, soon followed by emotional letters to my dead wife and self-evaluation. Now it is just ideas, opinions, reactions and recordings of daily occurrences to “Just Another Life”.

Personal therapy?

Absolutely!

Once I write my thoughts and post it for anyone to read and comment, there is no need to burden family or friends (or strangers) with whatever bazaar take I have. It is not intended to change anyone’s ideas or beliefs or bias, but to make any reader ‘think’. There are some footnotes but most is personal interpretation of the daily word.

Anyone is free to comment or e-mail and there have been some interesting and informative intelligent conversations. I also delete the crap.

This afternoon is spent spreading shelled almonds and cocktail peanuts on the ground to see the neighbors chow down. Tonight might be a nap on the porch?

Tomorrow is another day.

Who do you bare your soul to?