Spent this afternoon at Jonathan Bloch’s place undergoing my bi-weekly psychotherapy, which has so far produced some abatement of my “condition” but (if you’ve been reading this blog) obviously I’m still not very healthy. Perhaps if the news organizations currently surrounding me could go one week without mentioning fucking nuclear terrorism, I’d be able to digest food properly. I mean, come the fuck ON already. I even got angry at myself yesterday and vowed to just press on and approach my anxiety with fury and frustration (something Jonathan endorsed) and start my writing career again. And still the fantasies exist (“fantasy” always seems to be a word that denotes good things, but I’m not quite sure what else to call them—daymares?). Anyway, I can’t imagine not printing these stories, when it could potentially the worst thing to happen to civilization since the last plague—but then again, what good does it do? How are we supposed to act when it happens? Assuming we survive, where should we have put our money? Will we have to walk to Columbia County?
Fuck it. I really can’t stand it anymore. I wonder when my body and brain will say “enough.”
Speaking of walking to Columbia County, Todd Walker and I drove up today and it took us damn near four hours, unheard of in these parts. Note to self: do not take I-87 off the Triboro Bridge, even during the Apocalypse.
When we arrived, the fields had been cut, and it was seventy degrees. Lord, please let the weather hold and let us frolic at night under the delight of the full flower moon. Okay?
western part of the Columbia County farm, about to become a softball field