sick

It's now Saturday night, so I can finally sing Sam Cooke.

Another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody.
I've got some money 'cause I just got paid.
Now, how I wish I had someone to talk to.
I'm in an awful way.

But I have what's important. I have my cigarettes, and I have my books.

I did everything I said I was going to do today.

First, I went on a double-length walk. I've spoken of them before, but I find the exercise fanatics in the park rather sad. I see them huffing and puffing away, looking miserable, not even looking around and enjoying their surroundings. I wonder if they can even imagine all the things they miss seeing?

I'm sure they'd find me just as annoying as I find them. No doubt they wouldn't think I'm dedicated enough. I'm continually stopping to look at things. Deer, birds, interesting plants. Today I stopped on a number of occasions to watch woolly bears (Pyrrharctica isabella) cross the path. I then saved them from certain death; they're slow-moving and tend to get run over and stepped on. I know that for every one I saved, ten more were probably squashed, but I feel all right having done what I could.

(Let's avoid any philosophical discussions on the possible problems created in interfering, shall we? Did I kill them by moving them, by putting them somewhere that someone will later walk? I can't answer these questions.)

I also went to see my grandfather, and spent a number of hours over there. He wanted to go out to dinner, but I was getting a headache and had to decline. I feel guilty, of course; I really should go over there more. If any of you were reading a year ago, or wish to look back, you'll find me saying the same thing about my grandmother. It's a guilt thing. No matter how much I visit, and how much else I do, I'll always feel I should have done more. That's how it works.

Anyway, now I'll go back to singing and reading my book.