almost okay

Dear Lyzako,

The sun is just now cracking the horizon, burning pink the strips of clouds that angle over the trees, the sky ice blue, the wind calm. A high of sixty is expected, and no rain until tomorrow.

Work has kept me jumping nearly nonstop this past fortnight. Often I don't even know what day of the week it is, and I really cannot account for all the spent time, I've been so caught up in slaving away. You see, I've determined that time flies even when you're NOT having fun. Trust me. I think Einstein made a similar observation while formulating his Theory of Relativity.

My right knee has me feeling crippled, a muscle or ligament strain on the inside of the joint refusing to heal over the past ten days, staying stubbornly sore as I continue to have to rely on it to do physical work. My schedule for the next few days should allow enough slack time for it to get better, but I'm right back to the grind come Monday.

Last night was the first full night of furnace use this year, with temperatures plunging into the forties. We've been lucky so far with the weather, though, the hangover of Summer lasting nearly until Halloween this year, keeping the trees green and fully-leafed, while allowing for comfortable days of toil and easy nights of sleep. And so far, no raking, a chore that pains my injured upper spine and tortures me every time I'm forced to perform the task. Each Autumn I pray to the God of Wind to send the leaves from my towering back yard Maple across the fence and into the neighbor's yard behind me. A selfish prayer, I know. It shames me, but I wish I could make it even more selfish by directing the wind to blow from the south and bury the more troublesome neighbor's evil, yapping dog to the north side of me, smother the life from the ignorant beast, but I'll take what I can get as long as it involves less use of the rake.

I see I've penned several paragraphs now and the words (too many words!) seem to take no direction, just sentences highlighting the disjointed thought processes of my failing mind, while giving off a meandering low-pitched whine about life in general. What can I say? It's like that sometimes. The stress and pressure of day-to-day living can be nearly overwhelming in both its sameness and its ugly variety... the people... the mindless, meaningless exchange of precious life minutes for money...the scant few minutes I'm able to enjoy of total peace and relaxation...

Of course, those minutes become hours, which in turn become days, eighteen-thousand and eighty-six of them, in my case to be exact. Of that number, a handful of truly memorable good ones, and several dumpsters filled to overflowing with woeful ones... those days become years... the years become a lifetime and, well, you know the rest... eventually we get to the 'Rest In Peace' part.

I had another Bukowski dream last night. In it, old Buk's hair had gone snow white, and it was growing around his head and face, down his neck, over his throat, beard growing down to meet white hair growing up from his chest, shoulders and back. He'd trimmed it just about collarbone height in a ring all the way around his magnificent head, his eyes glowing like embers within the framework of his mane. Buk was drinking beer and laughing, wearing a stained wife-beater.

“Enjoy it while you can, Marty!” he said to me.

I've opened the blinds to the morning sun, which slants in and fills the room with warmth and light. I'd really much rather be sleeping the day away, but I'll try to take some energy from the sun and heed the words of old Buk. I need one more cup of coffee, though. After that I plan to enjoy as much as I can of Number Eight-Thousand-And-Eighty-Seven.

Regards and Well Wishes,
Marty Sherman