Went for a drive today. Did not get out of the car. Did not interact with humanity. Did get to see what the vineyards are up to, which was bittersweet. Gotten used to watching the progression from dormancy to bud break to full on foliage. This year, obviously, we’ve missed a lot of the middle bits.
I like to think that things are getting better and improving. Then I make the mistake of reading the news.
I’m reading The Devil Rides Out by Dennis Wheatley, which might be best described as “a cracking good story, chap!” Seriously, though, as much as everyone bitches about Lovecraft, I can only expect that if they read Wheatley or Sax Rohmer, they’d have coronaries.
The book is fun, and goofy, and it’s obvious that Wheatley did a lot of research, especially with the terminology he uses, but his utter disdain (which he makes clear in his introduction) and inability to contextualize or see other viewpoints make this read almost like a gushing fifth grader’s fanfic of what they think a thrilling adventure story might be.
Regardless, I’m really enjoying it.
I’m tired. So, so, fucking tired. Tired of all of this. Tired, tired, tired.
My son, bless him, is mostly holding up, but he’s starting to fray around the edges. He’s 8. So far in his life, he’s almost died multiple times as a baby, been through two wildfires, and now this.
But this is why we are so strict and adamant about waiting this thing out, and staying in as much as possible.
We didn’t go through all that shit when he was born, keeping him alive, just to be taken out by this thing. I certainly believe that life is frequently absurd. I’ve also always believed that it’s up to each of us to make our own meaning.
My son deserves a chance to do that with his life.
And god damn, if I won’t do everything I can to make sure he has that opportunity.
But Jesus Christ, this whole thing could be over any time now, and I’d be totally okay with that.