December 29, 2015

Days since Christmas have been taken up mostly with fussing– insurance for the damage to the car, finally signing the papers for 62– and for a person who hates fussing almost above anything else it has been trying. The insurance inspector already cancelled one appointment, lengthening my sit-here-and-wait time by three hours. “Oh, I forgot I have a meeting in Brevard.” Says I, “Skip the meeting.” Silence on the other end. The damage estimate on my car is north of $1600. I hate fussing so much I actually considered just paying it so no calls had to be made, no appointments cancelled and rescheduled.
   
I think of myself before our last show, almost weeping with frustration because we had to come 15 minutes early to “rehearse.” It’s not that we didn’t need it, but just that my resentment of being made to do something, of blindly following somebody else’s program, is almost incapable of moderation. I would have made a terrible soldier.
   
Just-more-than-half moon in the sky when I went to the gym.  Brilliant star in the east. Big old crow waiting in the dogwood when I came home.
   
The day of repose I think I’ve earned keeps receding into the future.