Waking around 5 this morning; trying to drink coffee that’s but warm from a thermal pitcher, as I press the button on the coffee maker set to start automatically a half hour later, and wait for Rex to awake; my eyes have yet to clear as I write this.
Some 20 minutes later my best friend is dancing about wanting to attend his business outside and eat breakfast; and finally the coffee begins to brew. We wander about in the large backyard; in the cold while he sniffs around and, of course, moves quickly with what he has to do, as he hungry. It is breakfast time, after all.
Finally, all of the protocols are complete; he eats and returns to nap a while and my coffee’s steaming, a cup beside my computer.
I will shortly attend the work I must do, and on which I’ve little focus; distracted by the need to make my annual batch of Italian Fig Cookies for the family. Most of yesterday was filled, no pun intended, preparing the filling and dough, still chilling in the refrigerator. The preparation is quite labor intensive and no longer much fun; with cleanup extensive, but, of course, I will press on (as I hope to do with this venue, where I have less of a chance of “pressing on” than with the cookies).
My life, these days, however, is remarkably simplied, with my home smaller than my last apartment and, in fact, small than any home in which I’ve lived for quite a long time. But it proper and comfortable, though frequently in modest disarray: Rex tracks dry debris in on it’s light, hardwood floors, which I have taken to accept for several days at a time, as sweeping is a bit tedious and, as such, challenging for me to complete, even for the very few minute it takes.
My couch, tattered with a couple of small tape repairs after 15 years needs replacement. While I frequently consider it, as a replacement is almost a pittance, I wonder why. Should I have company who might find it “tacky” or “inappropriate,” I think then I have chosen the wrong company.
My cottage, as I call it, is the best compromise for me, a genetic apartment dweller from New York; small it is, requiring me to store, or in most case, rid myself of “stuff,” per George Carlin.
I have almost returned, if not entirely so, to my Beat Generation roots and lifestyle. It is that which gives me a bit of comfort, something that has been lacking for many years.
My life is becoming increasingly comfortable, yet the same questions remain about society; our culture and life itself. I’ll see no answers before I die, but perhaps I’ll find a new friend one day with whom to discuss it.