Is It November 3rd Yet?

Another month in isolation. It’s raining (it’s always raining). I’m reading books and watching Criterion. T***p is well along the way to self destruction (there are still predictions out there insisting T***p will not make it to November). I’m living on cauliflower and smoked salmon dreaming of meatloaf in mushroom gravy. Sometimes I am envious of T***p’s Big Macs and KFC.

I don’t know if there is any connection with this pandemic isolation but I am feeling older and older. I rely on my rolling walker to make even the shortest trip across the bedroom (especially at night). I have to ask my son-in-law to open jars for me. My eyes water constantly and I find myself making the computer font larger almost weekly. I still have a sense of humor and a trickle of a sex drive (ha! that’s useful) but two things I have often heard of as diminishing with old age seem to have missed me: I now sleep more than ever and I love to eat.

I mentioned sleep. Not only have I added a few hours, I have also unleashed an often frightening collection of vivid dreams, most loosely based on images, opportunities, or characters from my past. They say you have your best dreams just before you wake up; since my old-man bladder has me popping out of bed every three hours, I’m getting a lot of quality dream time.

This month’s reading pool is a hodgepodge of reading. For weeks I have been shuffling titles based on availability, size, and interest. A few true classics, a couple of what they often call “modern classics,” several fun or interesting titles, stories from around the world, and a couple of titles I have been putting off for way to long. Join me.