Arrant Nonsense

Dearest Rachel –

Of all the earworms to have going through my head, this is the one I wake up hearing?

I’ve been Norman Mailered, Maxwell Taylored.
I’ve been John O’Hara’d, McNamara’d.
I’ve been Rolling Stoned and Beatled ’til I’m blind!
I’ve been Ayn Randed, nearly branded
A Communist, ’cause I’m left-handed
That’s the hand they use… well… never mind.

Simon & Garfunkel (well, Paul Simon, really), “A Simple Desultory Philippic” from Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme (1966)

And yet this is the sort of arrant nonsense that we would talk with each other about in the idle hours of a Saturday morning – when we weren’t doing other things like, well… never mind. I miss not having anyone to talk with about all this sort of stuff. Neither Siri nor the Internet talk back, you see, so it isn’t really the same.

I forgot to mention last night, one of the reasons this neighborhood seems to be much nicer than the one we stayed near five years ago in because this is clearly a Jewish neighborhood, complete with a very nice community center (with stained glass windows – I always thought that was just a cathedral thing, but apparently not). Even the local Winn-Dixie, in that strip mall I walked through yesterday, was offering Shabbat specials – none of which I recognized, because I don’t read Hebrew, even when it’s transliterated.

I mention this because last night’s dream involved a special fork to be used for Shabbat meals, with only the two outside tines. Why this would make cooking, serving, or eating a meal any easier (or at least, less work) is beyond me. I’m going to chalk it up to the usual ridiculous dream logic. One had better hope one’s rice is very sticky.

You would think that I would be dwelling on getting myself ready to make my boarding schedule. While that’s a valid concern, the fact of the matter is that I’m waking up every couple of hours, starting with 2:30 a.m., so I’m more concerned about going back to sleep at this point. And, my brain being my brain, it simply devises more strange scenarios for me to relate to you. Such as an unusual cartoon that Disney would never greenlight, based on Kermit as a tadpole – kind of like “Muppet Babies” meets “Spongebob” – proving once and for all that he’s basically been the only sane man in his life since practically the moment he hatched.

Or how about Daniel expressing concern to me over our mortgage, and how Jo might just decide to repossess the house now that you’re gone? I had to remind him (in the dream, mind you – in real life, a.) he’d know better, and b.) this sort of thing wouldn’t so much as cross his mind) that his grandmother passed on two years prior – and in any event, they forgave the last bit of our mortgage several years before even his grandfather passed.

Why is this the stuff that’s going through my head at these odd hours? I have no idea. And why am I telling you about this? Like I said, I don’t have anybody else to talk to anymore. I never thought that writing would become a compulsion, and yet here we are. It’s like I have to do this, otherwise I might turn mute. I’m fairly certain that, if you were around for me to talk to, I would barely find myself needing to write another word. But that’s no longer an option. And so, here I am.

I think I’d best just give this a rest, though. I can only try to go back to sleep so many times before it gets to the point where I just shouldn’t any more. I should just get up and on with the day, if for no other reason than that I need to check out and hop that bus back to the pier – even if I am still the only one on it.

Wish me luck, honey… I’m going to need it.

Published by randy@letters-to-rachel.memorial

I am Rachel's husband. Was. I'm still trying to deal with it. I probably always will be.

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