Humph. I spent today cooking for seven but fed only two. And for the first time in about 2.43 million years (plus or minus 4.86 milliseconds) I burnt the bottoms of not just one but simultaneously two loaves of sourdough bread, which is strange because the tops are perfect and the interiors not overdone. I might have a reasonable idea about how that came about, but I’m not so keen on repeating the conditions just to see what happens. The alternative is to cook just one loaf at a time, but since that’s my normal routine it seems perfectly viable.
I was going to leave the word normal out of normal routine, but it seemed important upon reconsideration to distinguish my bread baking from my abnormal routines. Otherwise, the word normal seems superfluous in “normal routine”. I try to choose my words carefully so I always get a steady stream of new regrets rather than reiterating the same old boring ones. For example, our daughter called a while back and after I said hello she apologized for waking me. Being generally pretty honest and wishing to inform her that there was no need for apology, I said, “Oh, no, I wasn’t sleeping. I’m just post-coital”.
Oh, wait. That wasn’t my regret. It was hers. Still, it was a new one and not some boring recycled thing.
Unlike most older folks I don’t wonder why the kids never call. I know precisely why, and I don’t blame them one bit. I wouldn’t talk to me either. I almost never talk to myself. I blog instead. That legitimizes it, ya know. Some very fine people are in on my insanity and pretend it’s not there even when I call attention to it. Your kindness is greatly appreciated. Thank you!
For what it’s worth, most of my routines are abnormal. But I can’t write about it. They don’t need evidence if you confess.
While all of this cooking too much and burning the bottoms of the loaves was going on my past was brought back to me by someone who found it and didn’t want it any more than I did. Apparently I left it somewhere near a place I used to live despite having no memory of being there at the time that I dropped it. Could be that the wind blew it there, I suppose, but I don’t really know how these things work so that might be a ludicrous notion. “Brought back” isn’t really the correct term, but that’s what we say about being reminded of things and I’ve already exhausted my desire to pick apart the language. I’m not saying it won’t come back soon but I can’t just sit here staring at the computer monitor all night hoping to get smarter as the need for sleep increases.
It could be that all of the things I’ve learned but wish I’d had no need of knowing might come in handy from time to time. Kinda like Keith Richards’ mangled index finger, I guess, only it has no chance of paying so well. I’ve got a mangled nail on my left index finger but it doesn’t come in handy for shit. It snags on things, and when the bit that snags annoys me too much I grab it with pliers and yank it out. It’s actually fairly painful, and it bleeds when I do that. But then I get some weeks during which it doesn’t snag on things, which I appreciate.
Sometimes, I guess, ya gotta just rip out the bits that don’t belong and suffer a bit of pain to get on to the improved parts of life that aren’t so bad after it heals. But, life being what it is, it only lasts just so long and if it’s not that thing come back around it’s something else. I try to never make the same mistakes twice, but then I have been known when in good company with cheap wine to say “fuck the hangover!”. The next morning the hangover always says, “Yeah? Fuck you too!”. But it might not really be a mistake after all. There’s wine, which is good by definition even when it’s some cheap shit in a gallon jug, there’s good company, and maybe the ethanol kills off a bad memory or two.
I mean, how would you know? It’s not like you can say that until last night you remembered this really horrible thing and now you don’t, ya know? If the horrible memory is truly gone, you can’t know it’s gone. And this little gem is a thing I figured out with no study of quantum physics at all. Can you believe it? I’m astounded, anyway.
Ya wanna know what’s really astounding? I’ve written all of this with zero intoxicants influencing this thing, whatever it is, that I too generously refer to as my mind.
Which leads me to believe that sobriety is highly overrated and not at all worth doing.