I only have a few minutes before the Xanax takes over and pushes towards the darkness of sleep. I will try not to let this devolve into any of the horrors within me. When I ask myself what about my life is worth relaying in writing here I am struck by an odd variety of internal responses. They can loosely be categorized along the lines of satire, humor, and horror. Yet mostly what regularly arrives is a form of plaintive whining.
An old college friend texted me tonight. He was doing his will. For some reason this made him think of me, so he reached out. He bought a house in Bar Harbor, Maine and is preparing somewhat prematurely for retirement, and presumably death. I talked my way into his will and apparently I may one day live in Bar Harbor, also. Right after he does, circumstances depending.
Bar Harbor is on the same island where Acadia National Park is. I have always wanted to go there. Several times I meant to drive there from NYC, but never did. It always seemed like more of a drive than it should have been - 8 hours. This was enough to dissuade me, apparently.
Well, I'll let you know once the house is mine. We'll have a party there. Look it up, it's truly beautiful.
In our chat he told me that it's "the only true fjord in the Unites States..." This didn't sound correct or even possible to me. I looked it up. Apparently the only one true fjord the east coast is the Hudson River. So maybe I was right to stay in Manhattan, surrounded by all that natural sewage and decay.
What's the line? Something like.... Satire is blind to the forces of decay, which is why decay absorbs the force of satire.
Remember that one.
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