3 Oct 2013

20 min first thing: 150 lowrise steps, warmup and cool down 150 motions each with and without weights.

Physio at 8:30 AM: 20 minutes on the rackety row machine.

Underwater emotionally (depressed). Know what must be done. It’s not like this pain is an excuse but it is a challenge. I may have this tremendous opportunity, to live without having to work at some stupid ass-kissing or back breaking job, courtesy of my contributions to Social Security. To piss and moan about pain would be a short track to an early grave and would be to blow it.

Note to the Immortal Beloved, and you know who you are, Babe: just because I sound gude doesn’t mean I am gude, but you of all people know that. I owe the world a sonnet on that theme but will go to the dayroom to write that. What would Shakespeare do? He’d start by hearing the sound of men and angels in church, that famous passage on charity (love) by St. Paul. But still for later now.

Returned to reading Johansen’s History of Ancient Philosophy for I don’t need light reading. Cavorting in a spa would only depress me although perhaps I could go for a really good <em>policier</em> at this time. What’s with this Elmore Leonard?

It is clear that the next step on close-reading this book will be re-reading Johansen’s key chapter on Aristotle’s Metaphysics. I mean, consider this: form, light, knowledge and substance combined in a “crowned knot of fire” used to lead us on as opposed to a gyre of trash (why ain’t I cleaning that up?)

I am nothing more than a Pittsburgh Dad who’s read a bit more but knows less about sports. I mean, there was a Base-ball team called the Pittsburgh Pirates when I was a kid. Does it still even exist? But like the Pittsburgh Dad, my happiest times despite the strain were tootling off in my little Ford Escort with Eddie and Peter (junglee Peter) in the California sunshine despite the expense.

Last year my life closed twice before its close what with the cancer and the death of my son. I scarce can hear the sound of mourning for the latter unless I personalize it as Michelangelo’s Pieta, or, plorans ploravit in nocte. The world must have turned to a generalized mourning last year for the sun still shines. I cannot command it like Bedford i’th’old play:

Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night!
Comets, importing change of times and states,
Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky,
And with them scourge the bad revolting stars
That have consented unto Henry’s death!
King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long!
England ne’er lost a king of so much worth.

nor would I want to. Am I to be one of those professional mourners you see who makes everyone’s life mizzable? Naw…

My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.

– Emily Dickinson

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