Wednesday. Another good night's sleep last night: no alcohol, another funky headed morning this morning clearing up, somewhat, around noon. It still ached for all that, but the head was reasonably clear and I was, well, getting things done. Into the office early, home early and now I sit here thinking I have photographs that I've owed people for too long and, although they still seem to smile when I call to make my excuses, I get the feeling I only have so much time left before they write me off as a flake. And I am a flake, of course, putting off these tasks in the same way I put off the sorry assed tasks I always put off such as laundry and doing the two dirty dishes that permanently inhabit my sink.
Suck it up.
Ah, yes. Suck it up. You're not the first to suggest it.
Saturday. Bright sun from first light, breakfast at the usual cafe (waffle, two eggs, two strips of bacon with a real sugar Coke instead of coffee - the sake last night making this a standard variation in my routine), home now sitting at the computer with Ms. Emmy on my lap. I have photographs to print. I have naps to take. I have laundry sitting in the hamper. I have to go crawl into bed now and hide just thinking about it. Do you suppose this is extreme for a guy in his sixties? Aren't you supposed to have worked it out by now: eyes blank, routines in place, memory huddled way down in the brain stem singing little songs? “What's up memory?” asks Brain. “Mary had a little lamb....” Memory replies.