The city from my view.

A pulse on a vibrant Megalopolis.

Monday, December 29, 2014

We Made It

Holiday Inn where Wally, Beto and I stay every year.


Another Holiday season nears its end. It seems I began to write 2014 on checks without thought when I'll need to go through a few checks until 2015 formulates in my brain. Wally will be eighty-three in January, I'll be sixty-nine in July.

The hen house was cleaned by Mexican Monkey. He trimmed the grape arbor too, and today I cut up the vines for smoking meats this summer. Grape vines, I think, make the best smoke for barbecuing. Way better than hickory or mesquit. Better even than apple. Especially with chicken, pork or fish, it has a wonderful mild smoke flavor that is not overbearing but enhances the flavor of the meat.

A friend of ours house caught on fire today. The heater in his adjacent tenants rental was the cause. He has no heat, electricity, phone, gas or water. And the fire department batter-rammed his front door so he has to stay there until he can secure the building. We are expected to get rain in a day with the temperature near freezing.

But he'll get a better building, if the insurance works in his favor, and next year, if he lives through this, may be a better year for him.  It doesn't look good right now, but it could change.

Wally had another urinary problem where we spent Christmas Eve and day with nurses and doctors but it looks like there will be a solution to this too, and it may make Wally's life better and ours trying to care for him. 

So here is to a better year. With all the hope and goodwill to make it so, we might have a better year than the last.

Monday, December 15, 2014

Burn Out And What To Do Aout it



"Shit happens," and, "Adapt or die," another truth of the universe, explains, in very simple terms, what life is all about. That's it folks, the secret of life described in two or three words without the disorder of religion to warp what is true.

Every once in a while, it hits me that Wally's days are numbered. The doc said, one maybe two years. Then I think of my own death, and with a slight calculation of years lived and years I may have left, the tally seems mighty slim. And what the fuck am I doing? Do I like doing what I'm doing? And if I don't, then why aren't I changing my choices?
Winter's Crop

It is burn out. It's when you feel like the deer in the headlights. You see what's coming but you can't do anything about it. You fizzle, feel helpless and that makes it hard to look for a life line.

I'm doing okay. I'm adapting to the shit that's happening. I take a step back, a deep breath, pick myself up and get back in the game.

My solace is our garden. It's fussing in the garden that gives me a chance to step back, breath and feel okay once more. Writing is another and that's the cure for burn out, my opinion. What's yours?