I try doing one thing a
day that I think is constructive and memorable, something where I
can say: “I can build on this.”
It’s an “easier thought than done” plan,
especially for someone with a permanently
worried mind. I wasn’t sure what Flo K.
meant when she engrossed each insurance form with the diagnosis “atypical anxiety disorder,” but at
this point I think I agree with her conclusion.
It must be the case. And every
day I find I’m a stranger to myself. Stranger and stranger to
myself.
Clarity pierces the veil
almost daily, but fleetingly.
Before I took the horrendous, at least two steps back, law firm job in
Philly, I seemed to be on a kind of roll, even after the sundered apparent but pseudo friendship
with the SF psycho-loser, but my season in Center City hell put paid to all that.
Still, we
accomplished a lot that year and I think I’ve retained membership in the Diminished But Not Finished
Society.
So the thing to do still is to write things down and illustrate and decorate them. Bob had Peter and Bunny to help him with
that. I have a posse also and my own Bunny.
