I returned the Michael Palin Diaries: The Python Years 1969-1979. I ordered the second installment Halfway to Hollywood 1980-1988 which should be available in a day or two. I am also reading Stephen Sondheim- Finishing the Hat. It’s my second go-round with this book and I find it an easier read than it was a few years ago.

I am also reading A Ned Rorem Reader which is a collection of interviews and stories from Ned Rorem. He was someone that I heard ‘of’, rather than heard. There is a wonderful, funny interview that Rorem has with Stephen Sondheim and it’s worth checking out on YouTube.

I just started reading A Ned Rorem Reader this afternoon and within minutes I was struck by something Ned Rorem said about writing a diary when he was living in Paris.

In Chez Marie-Laure de Noailles, M. de Noailles handed him ‘a pretty little carnet with several hundred empty pages, saying “Here, write. Even if you feel bad before and after while you’re writing your cares are transferred”.’

That actually makes sense. The cares ARE transferred and I more or less feel the same as I did before I started writing. This is a diary. It is a blog. It is whatever you want to call it. I am relatively ambivalent about what to call it, usually calling it this here blog.

Today was a gloomy Sunday. The sun was out and there was a chill in the air. On the top floor of the building where Bill and I live, it’s generally cooler than it is when we hit the street. Thermometer readings are of no use. I explained to Bill how I was feeling depressed when we took a walk, like a failure, ashamed of my employment situation.

Mainly wary of how people I care about might perceive this latest setback Some family members know, but others are intentionally left in the dark. And knowing they do not read this here blog that secret seems to be safe.

There will be no Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday, plans have changed, and no invitations are proffered. And that’s OK. I am content to do nothing since I have been doing nothing for a few weeks now and it’s really just another day.

I just have to make it to Friday, which is far away when you are not doing anything. I do look for work, I do send out resumes. No one’s biting. Perhaps it’s the end of the year and no one wants to know. I am tainted by ageism.

I was born in 1962, I am 62 and I am 6’2”.

I feel like I am 40 sometimes. That does not do anyone any good, these delusions. They certainly do not do me any good. I send out resumes and occasionally think I am so perfect for this spot or that gig, and then again there are dozens if not, hundreds that send out their resumes, some of them thinking the same thing.

And in the back of my mind, I think the last job will call back, telling me what an awful mistake they made in letting me go. Begging me to return with more money offered.

Now that is a delusion, yes a fleeting one but it does make an appearance and leaves a mark.

Saturday. Did I write yesterday? Was it oily? No that was the day before. Still leaping around the Michael Palin Diaries: The Python Years. I’m going to have to return it to the library soon. Oddly enough, the latest entry I read was about the Tim Rice program where Michael Palin and John Cleese had to defend Life of Brian from two high falutin clerics from the Church of England who attacked the film without having seen it. I say oddly enough since for me it was quite important and engrossing.

It’s humorous watching it 45 years later on YouTube, Cleese and Palin are still alive, the clerics no doubt grappling with what they thought was an afterlife and the realization that with all the money they fleeced from their flocks, they couldn’t take it with them, and the Messiah they worshipped, if he’s out there would more than likely admonish and perhaps condemn them for their views and their actions.

Or maybe not.

I am not one to pronounce what happens after this life since I simply do not know. I embrace the thought that the spirit or soul or essence goes out to the ever-expanding universe.

Or maybe not.

Today, like I started with, is Saturday. My dreams have become quite odd. The ones I remember involve working. Last dream, I was working with my sister in some capacity. It was sort of in Hoboken. My neighbor Claire made an appearance. And not much work was being done which for me is not the norm, I do prefer to be busy. Makes the time go faster.

Today I was somewhat busy. I helped Bill out on 2 projects and was quite happy to do so. We had plans to go for a walk which for me meant going to the supermarket. I made a quick stop at the cigar shop, leaving Bill at home to finish one of his projects. That took longer than expected and when I came back to the building Bill was still working.

That was fine, I was already street level, so I let him know I was headed to the supermarket solo. No big deal. As I was almost done with picking up some groceries, Bill let me know he was on his way. I was not sure if he was going to shop for himself and told him I did get some things for him. It turned out he was getting his own stuff.

Blueberries? He got his own so I returned the organic blueberries because he was getting the bigger GMO blueberries that were a few dollars more. How many times is organic produce cheaper than non-organic produce? What matters to me does not matter to him. Then again, he has a job whereas I do not.

Then the walk home was stressful with words thrown back and forth. I was accused of rushing him through his projects. I most certainly did not do anything like that. If anything, I gave him a wide berth to do whatever it was he needed to do as I was prepared to do what I needed to do, alone.

I like to think he realized that. He seemed to, as things defrosted quite quickly by the time we got home.