if done correctly on day one, leftover spaghetti is always the bomb. that is gospel truth. i'm sitting here, Sunday afternoon, eating an early supper of spaghetti and meatballs, with a side salad, that I made fresh yesterday. the spaghetti is good, and I am glad to have made it, though it's not a regular dish for me. I just had a craving for it, and the means to make it, and that's what is up with that.
the book cover? well, that's going to be out sometime in April. I have slaved over it, worked and reworked it, and finally got some acceptable dimensions from Amazon, so I have submitted the book and am waiting to see if it has been accepted so I can also get the ebook formatted and get them out to the public. such as that will be.
it's funny, in some ways. here we are, pandemic-down, quarantine-bound, socially distant by six feet or more, and I want to put out my book. but it's been a couple years since I've done any writing to this degree. it's been months and months since I've even updated the Journey with any regularity. so I want to ride this small wave, and if it peters out, at least i'll have done something, and if it swells, then let's see if we can ride that bitch as well.
so, afraider. of what? same thing, always. the unknown. it is a manageable fear, but a fear nonetheless. how do you dispel it? how do you make a fear of the unknown go away? where does it go to? I work my program as best as I can. I am not unfunctioning right now. I will put my clothes away that were washed. I am journaling. I will shower and shave and be ready for work tomorrow. I did email my REAL boss our paperwork today, and the boss of the clinic I work at a request for information for the next phase of our work duty, which seems that we'll deliver meals. something to do, not a bad deal. don't even know if it includes us or not, HPH, whom I drive for, who signs my checks I should say. because I don't get those communications. but it's okay. I can't do what I don't know, and eventually they'll learn that. or they won't. either way...
but afraider. the unknown. this whole situation is like, when we were kids, you'd have massive games of 'Duck, Duck Goose', if you can recall that. where someone would go around the circle of people, touching kids heads and saying, 'duck, duck, duck...' each time they touched someone, until they got to who they wanted to be 'it', and they'd smack that kid's head and yell "GOOSE!" and the chase would ensue around the circle, and if the kid that smacked his head could get to the empty place before the Goose caught him, he was 'safe' and the other kid was it. and so on and so on.
this is something like that. who's sick? who knows? who's dying? unless it is someone you know, you can't know for sure anyone is. we live in that kind of reality. who knows? but I believe people are dying. they're not huge numbers, but it's predicted that everyone will end up with this COVID-19 virus at some point. and that means, anyone could be IT. anyone could be the one smacked in the head, trying to make it to the empty place, and deathly afraid they won't. what a relief it must be for those who contract it and live through. what sorrow for the survivors of those who don't...
I do what I have in front of me to do. I made dinner for my parents. I made sure my father was masked & gloved when he left out of the house. I washed and dried my work clothes, and a few other things. I wrote a poem for my child, because she's been waffling on whether she's going to move in here or not. you wanna hear it?
"if you wonder
if I miss you,
yes, I do.
if you wonder
if you're wanted,
that will always
be true.
if you wonder
do I care,
I always will.
I keep you in
my heart
from now until...
I can't invite you
to Sanctuary.
I can only make sure
you have a key.
if you do,
then let
'Welcome'
be assumed.
No palace
but you'll always
have a room.
And just in case
it's too hard
to relate,
just know from me,
For you,
there is no hate.
my love for you,
my child,
is without end,
and that will end
this poem
that I send."
yes, cheesy, but heartfelt. I can't invite her to live with me, because I have already told her she's welcome. I won't help, because she has a right to her life, her mistakes, her pain, or her release, relief and reset. everyone does. I hate what she's going through but I did not put here there and would never do so.
afraid for her. afraid for my parents. afraid for my friend who may or may not have contracted this thing. afraid for my grandson, for my son and daughter. afraid for the people I work with, the clients I've gotten to know, the people on my street that I haven't seen since they just moved without a word.
Afraid for me. Afraider.
that's what I got at the moment. Thank you, Father, for keeping me moving and safe.
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