Sweat and Death. Her cat is slowing down. Their dog is old. They are the Ancient of Days. As death approaches we all will pamper our animal friends. Stinky old sheddy dog. Sore, rheumy eyed kitty. You are 13. That’s 178 in human years. Hound will be 16 in October. Still has some energy and tracks a scent like a pup. The hibiscus is even older. It was 12 when I met it, that was in 1985. It is now 41. It had kids. One is doing well and nearly an adult. The other went to Chris at the auto place and last I knew it was doing much better after being in a drafty place for the winter. There’s a tiny baby one on my window sill. It fell off the 40 something and I rooted it. The house got power washed and the cleaning solution hurt the old one. Some short sawed-off gray old troll sprayed it. Ever notice how landscaping has become a job not for young straplings, but old gray barflies. All workers seem to be late middle age. I guess their looming mortality reminds me of my own towering journey into the void. I believe in a God, actually I believe in all gods. Any path one chooses for enlightenment, improvement or being an agent of good and decent and love is fine with me. Once I was very sick for three days. Like in a coma. I felt nothing. My world faded to gray. I’m sure I was aware at some point, but I do not remember. I think that if we go out; our souls, our vitality, our life spark, like turning off one those old black and white TV sets where the picture just shrinks down to a single white dot  and then disappears, it will be okay. I can accept nothingness. It’s an eternity of fear and desperation,  torture and suffering and molten brimstone that scares me. And I’m going to New York and I fear the spectre of entombment in the subway or an elevator bristles my panic.  I’ve been eating wild blackberries. I put them in the blender and add homemade sour mix and a potable. Had one like it at Happy Buddha in Santa Monica where I sat next to a pretty lady and the bartenderesses where pretty tattooed lipstick lesbians. Boy we had a day. An English actor, Ioan Gruffudd, ordered us two blackberry bourbon sours.

Sweat. Some days I get no exercise so when I’m in an upswing I like to push myself. My road is busy so I do laps around the graveyard. It is wonderfully kept, and manicured. There are ancient graves with the colonial death’s head motif. I like the modern head stones. One has the decedent’s college degree on it: Here lies  Sue LaRue, she had her MSW. And one that I photoed and sent to my kundalini practicing friend. The caption said “Yoga’s Dead” and sure enough, Fred Yoga lived from 1932 till 2011. The other had the name of one of my former friends on it and I wanted to send it to him with a caption of “wish you were here”. But we aren’t speaking/communicating. Funny because 16 months ago, when he was on a cross country tour my daughter started taking me to the gym. I credit him, a lot for my slightly better health and energy levels. And that’s how I saw the groundchucks.

Me and my daughter go to several different gyms. We also go the elliptical tracks at local high schools. Yesterday she did 6.5 miles  I did 2 and I saw three woodhogs grazing. I like the track because unlike the gym , where there’s more socializing, people just want to exercise. The numchuks were in the outfield of the baseball field eating. Youth football practice was going on and the players were running up and down the stadium stairs which I nicknamed; Temple of the Sun. One kid was huge, 200 pounds, not fat just a side of beef. One was thin, tall, blond and hairy. His legs covered with filaments that looked like nylon. He was the fastest at sprints. Before I left I couldn’t help send the marmots into cover and climbing the Temple of the Sun. There’s an indoor ice rink and the Zamboni deposits snow outside the back door. I make August snowballs and throw them at cars on my way home.