It’s Wednesday morning, but it’s slightly after five o’clock as I write this, because I’m moving a bit slowly today, and if you find that this post is more disjointed or peculiar or bizarre even than is usual for me, that may, like my slowness, be because my sleep last night was even worse than usual.
I’m almost always plagued by early and frequent wakening, as I’ve described before, but last night I had trouble even getting to sleep before one thirty in the morning. Then, of course, I woke up starting at about two-thirty and then three-thirty and so on. So I’m feeling very frazzled and fuzzy and mentally fatigued, and that may come across in my writing. I’m not sure, though. Maybe there won’t be any difference that the unprimed reader would ever catch. Though, since I’ve given you warning, you may be more likely to draw the conclusion that I seem tired than you would had I not let you know about my worse-than-usual sleep.
We’ll never know now, will we?
I think maybe my sleep is worse than usual partly because I’m now sleeping in the “new” room that I’ve moved to, and perforce, my sleeping position is on the opposite corner of the room relative to what it was in my prior room. Also, the previous residents had cats in the room, and I’m allergic to cats (though I love them).
Anyway, the transition is irritating, partly because I didn’t have a great deal of choice in the matter. In the first place, I only moved into the house I’m living in now, several years back, because I was asked to move there by my now-former housemate, because he was moving there at the end of work release, which I was ending also. His friend, Barry, was the owner, but he (the housemate, not Barry) couldn’t afford to rent it on his own. The location is really not terribly convenient to where I work, as you might be able to tell from the fact that I can write a daily blog post—and before that, quite a few long short stories and several novels, including one very long novel—during my commute.
Nevertheless, as I tend to do, I adapted myself to the situation as well as I could, and became used to the commute and my schedule. Then, of course, my now-former housemate became my former housemate, with all of a week-ish’s notice before he moved out, and then I had new housemates who were terribly messy, so much so that I retreated even more completely than before into my little room. I could hardly stand even to pass through the kitchen. I’m not the neatest and tidiest of people in the world, but this was just intolerable. There were fruit flies actually breeding in the food they left out on the counter.
Anyway, they moved out, and the landlord wanted to rent the rest of the house as one unit, and so “asked” me to move into the back room. Most people would like this, I guess, because it is a bit bigger and there is an “en suite” bathroom, but the shower is tiny, and I’m going to have to go out of my area of the house to use the kitchen (including the refrigerator) and the laundry room, into the area that’s supposedly being rented “en bloc” to the other people. I also am going to need to enter and exit at the back of the house, walking through sand and dirt to get there.
It’s far from a concentration camp or anything, but I wish I had just rented someplace a lot closer to work in the first place, or taken up my father’s offer to stay with him and my mother and sister after getting out of work release, to do my writing and spend time with them in their final years and so on.
I elected not to do that partly because my soon-to-be housemate was counting on me, but mainly because I hoped that by staying in/returning to Florida, I would be able to see and spend time with my own children. That’s a bit of an unpleasant joke, looking back on it. My kids didn’t want to see and spend time with me; my son doesn’t even want to interact with me*. I could have forced visitation, but by the time I was done with work release, my children were both well into their teens, and more than capable of knowing and expressing what their preferences were. I was hardly going to try to use the law—of which I had become less of a fan than previously in my life—to coerce them to disrupt their lives when they would only resent it.
I’ve never felt it acceptable to force my presence on others if I could help it; I dislike myself too much to think I’m doing anyone anything but a disservice by pressing myself upon people’s lives, even from a distance. I had, in fact, just expected that my kids would want to see and spend time with me. This, it turns out, was a foolish notion, which is not unusual for me. I don’t understand people very well, it seems, including even my own children, whom I love more than anyone or anything else in the universe.
So, I missed out on the last few years of my parents’ lives, other than phone calls, and I’ve continued to miss out on my kids’ lives, including their entire teenage years and now into their early twenties (so far). My brother and sister are in Michigan and Ohio, in that order, and they have their own lives and families. And I’m still here in what I refer to as America’s syphilitic penis**, commuting a stupid distance daily to a job where at least I honestly like my boss and many of my coworkers.
I’ve made good use of my commute to write my books and short stories, at least; indeed, I’ve always said to myself that my reason to work is just to keep me alive, which I only want to do so that I can write my stories. But now I’m not writing fiction anymore, and I suspect I never will again. I’m also not doing any music. The whole situation has been a rather dull farce perpetrated upon me mainly by myself due to my inability to grokk humans.
Partly because of that, I had been unable (and indeed, unaware of the need) to protect myself against a legal system that doesn’t really care that I never wanted or tried to do anything but take care of people who were suffering from chronic pain (like I was and am), because everything the system did was merely the politics of shit-throwing apes, not the workings of honest, reflective, intelligent life forms seeking something like actual justice. I’m also apparently unable to be able to maintain personal relationships with other people—these beings who are becoming ever more inexplicable to me, or so it feels, as is the world itself.
To be clear, the physics and math and chemistry and biology of the world, and all that, are comprehensible. All that stuff is straightforward. And I suppose human behavior is no more inherently bizarre than the bobbing and bounding of bower birds and baboons. But I don’t think I’d feel very at-ease living with bower birds or baboons for long, either.
I certainly can’t “feel” human behavior, even though I can see and understand it from an outsider’s perspective. I used to be better at it, but then, I used to be either the youngest of a family of five, or a member of a group of friends and/or college roommates, or the member of a family of first two then eventually four. So I’d had my built-in groups from whom I could learn, and to whom I could adapt, and on whom I could rely to accept and even embrace my weirdness—I’ve always known I was weird, but I thought that was “just one of those things”, and not necessarily a bad one—and love me for who I was. I thought I could rely on such things, anyway.
All of this was, as I think I wrote earlier, farcical and foolish, and I’d laugh at my past self if it weren’t for the fact that it’s not even very good farce. It’s all just rather pathetic, really—and, as with its farcicality***, it’s not even very good pathos. It’s all just rather unpleasant and tedious, even to me.
I’m tired of it.
Or maybe I’m just tired. Maybe if I could get a good night’s sleep from time to time everything would be easier—easier enough at least to make it tolerable.
I doubt that I’ll ever know whether that’s the case.
*I guess I can’t blame him.
***Is that really a word? Microsoft Word seems to think it is. Go figure.