My maladies continue. They make no sense, but there they are, undeniable. I am bored of the details, too much so to write another word.
Today we will get out of the apartment. We will go have an adventure, possibly the beach. Rhys is too young to really enjoy the beach, I assume. But Rachel and I could use a day-long getaway, lunch in a strange town on the coast. We are both exhausted from the buying of the house. Everything has gone wrong. The banking institution that manages my 401k is criminally inept. They have caused everything to be put on delay. Now we must apply for a second addendum, pushing back the closing date even further, past the agreed upon final date. I am not certain of the details but I believe this might possibly put our deposit in peril, if the sellers so choose to be difficult about this latest delay. It is their option to exercise, or not.
Rhys may not know what a beach is but as new parents we are unsurprisingly excited to have new photo opportunities with him. It really is astonishing how quickly he changes. Just look at the pictures. He looks less and less like a little duplicate of me as he develops, though still favoring me a lot. We're starting to see other family characteristics emerge in him. It's really something. The boy sure is cute. That's one thing we all agree on. Everybody must feel that way about their own children though. Yet it's a universal understanding that most babies are not cute at first, that they become more so over time, hopefully.
My heart goes out to all of the ugly infants of the world.... hehe, no I kid, it does not.
Selavy wrote something very funny in response to my post from a few days ago. He sent it to me in an email, not wanting to post it for some reason, probably because he assured his fans that he wouldn't be reading my posts at all. In any event, he wrote to me, "I am nostalgic - for a time when you weren't so deluded." Hilarious, and true. Ever since having the child I have been suffering from a massive drug underdose. Everything has shifted on me. All of the things I used to believe to be true are rising up against me. It was time for such a thing, I suppose. My life had gotten too static, for far too long. But now I long for a taste of the past. Too much change, too soon.
I think back to New York and I do miss it a little bit. The post from the other day was part truth, part playful nostalgia, part memoir. As I sit here typing this I am listening to Bob Dylan's "Blood On The Tracks", an album that evokes a lot of memories for me, some distinct and some obscure. There is something hidden there in the album that I enjoy. It very well might be nostalgia. The rare sanguine feelings of past lost love, the balance between desperation and hopeful assertions of a future freshly changed. It is one of the greatest breakup albums ever. It has saved me countless times. No, that's a lie, the times are easily countable. The album induces in me both the memories of newly felt pain as well as the feelings of blind optimism for change that can sometimes only be achieved as the result of a broken heart. That foolish little thing we tell ourselves about how things are going to be. Next time.
Is that also nostalgia, or just more of the nonsense?
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