It’s Monday morning‒early‒the first day of the second work week of the fifth month of 2023. That sounds a bit like the sort of time when one might be able to use a magic key to open a hidden door in a lonely mountain or something similar, but pretty much any day sounds that way if you describe it in that fashion.
Try it. You’ll see.
I’ve had a pretty uncomfortable weekend, because whatever flared up my back pain last week‒I suspect it was riding the bike‒has not faded back to normal levels. I have scrupulously avoided riding since mid-week, but so far that has just made the pain shift a bit, not fade. I barely even went to the nearest convenience store this weekend. I ordered in food for dinner, which had its own comical or ironical pitfalls. But I did make sure to take a decent walk on Saturday, and it was nice enough, but wasn’t adequate to sort my back out, which should come as no surprise to anyone.
Of course, I did not go to see The Guardians of the Galaxy III this weekend. I was a deluded child to imagine that I might. Perhaps, if the scooter had started up and been running easily when I pumped its tires up, I might have gone, but otherwise it just wasn’t worth the effort to get to the theater, whether by public transport or Uber or Lyft*.
Probably my fantasy of going to the movie and having popcorn and candy and soda and watching the movie by myself is much better than the actual experience would have been. It’s a bit like how I always enjoy thinking about having a beer or glass of wine or mixed drink much more than I ever enjoy the drink itself. Often I don’t even finish my first drink in such cases.
Reality is just not as good as my imagination, like in the song Kodachrome. That’s partly why I don’t really care for “realistic” fiction. If I want a realistic story about ordinary people, there are eight billion of them happening every day all around. And they’re pretty much all boring, at least to me. Not the people, necessarily; the stories. Or, at least, they’re not worth writing a book about for the most part.
Of course, here I am, ironically writing a near-daily blog reflecting my daily, boring life. But that’s nonfiction, at least. And I doubt anyone will ever be assigned to read this in school anywhere, any when. If they are, well: Hey, kids! How’s it going? You’d really be better off with Shakespeare, you know; tell your teachers I said so. At least, if you’re going to read my writing, read my fiction.
Speaking of my fiction, I finished Mark Red again on Friday. It was a good book, I thought, but I am biased. I doubt that I’ll ever write the sequels though, not that that will break anyone’s heart. But I’m reasonably proud of the book. I still love Morgan, the vampire from the story. She’s very cool. You know she must be cool; Tony Stark named his daughter after her.
That last half sentence was wild speculation on my part, for which I have no evidence other than the coincidence of the two characters’ names. I’m okay with that, though.
Oh, btw, I’m writing this on my smartphone, because I chose not to bring my laptop with me to the house on Friday. Given the state of my back and hips and legs, it seemed fair just to keep my load light. I don’t know if that helped any; after all, as I said, my back is still killing me**. I’m writing at the house, because I might as well get the first draft done before leaving for the bus. I suppose I could have “slept in”, but then again, I was awake starting more than two hours before my alarm went off, trying to use my USB chargeable massager to relax my back and hips and sides and all that, with limited success.
See how exciting ordinary, solitary life is, even for a weird, malfunctional, pseudo-human like me? Why would anyone write or read fiction about them? Well, people can write and read what they like, and they have my sincere best wishes if they enjoy themselves doing so. It doesn’t work for me, unfortunately. I can barely read any fiction at all anymore.
I’m on my second week of retrying Saint John’s Wort. I don’t think it’s doing much good so far, but it is making me feel more tense and jittery, and I suppose it’s possible that it might be contributing to my worsening back pain (though I consider it more unlikely than likely). I almost didn’t take it today. I may give up on it, as part of the process of giving up on everything. But I’ll give it at least one more day in court.
And with that, I think I’ll head over to the bus stop and head in the general, eventual direction of the office, because as long as I’m unable to suppress my biological urges, I need to feed myself, and as long as I keep not wanting to inconvenience or disappoint other people, I need to keep doing the work I do. I don’t find any meaning in it per se, but then, nothing currently in my life has any meaning, so that hardly matters.
Such is real life. Why would anyone want to write and read stories about it?
*I have downloaded and signed up for the apps, but haven’t used them. Perhaps if I had previously done so and felt comfortable, I might have gone, but I still have resistance to it.
**But far too slowly for my taste.