Wow, What A Strange 12 Hours

 Let's face something - life is mostly flat; not like a tire but more steady. We go about our lives without great tragedies, or great successes. Trying to get by with what income we have and what love we have in our hearts.

Sometimes we do go crazy, throw a temper tantrum against the universe and make the front page of the local paper. Most people have better sense.

Most of my yesterday had that flatness. I find quiet now far more preferable to the reckless, angry, ambitious for acquiring dross, running with crazy people, hell-bent-for-leather to see and do days preceding my crack up. No more trouble in mind:

I went to work, had a short day, got back here around noon. I sorted through the email, I checked on dinner in the slower cooker, did a little cleaning, and started working on the latest version of "Dead and Dying". That I worked on that until around 8, when my eyes kept watering.

Then in the middle of the night, part of dinner made a return. I started choking, tore off the CPAP mask, and started making like a gigantic whooping crane. I'm surprised passing drivers didn't hear me and crash with panic from the sound. This is nothing new, but has become rarer this century. It is frightening to think I could go out one night like Jimi Hendrix.

Then the neighbors started fighting. I have not figured out what to do with them. I swear if I hear her crying, I am calling the cops.

Now, I am up with the alarm and writing what I did not get written last. Actually, writing a different post than I would have last night. My chest hurts. Breathing hurts. I do not want to go to work, but I will. The money is needed.

I still have a cough. In the email are a bunch of newsletters on writing. I do not think I will be getting to this morning as I planned last night.

The new version of "The Dead and The Dying" is coming along. I found mistakes in some of the older stories I am stitching into this version, so there may be a reason they kept rejecting the stories. I am also finding the tone of the older versions stodgy. Maybe I have found the key to telling these stories that will satisfy an editor. Probably not. Over ten years of living with this work, still trying to get a handle on it all.

Feeling that there is something lurking in my lungs reminds me I am living on borrowed time. It is 5:17. I can spend an hour on my story.

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