A cheery good morning, dear reader(s), I’m reporting to you early in the morning again, after another match with the psychiatrist(s) (and detectives?) at YouTube, not to mention the computer graphics department, whom looks to be enjoying their role in today’s activity. I must say it looks like this particular match is a draw, which is always frustrating for the players. I’ve got to up the ante—perhaps I’ll get some inspiration by taking a slow ride down 5th Avenue, past the airport, on my way to mom’s this morning? Alas, my time is tight this morning, I’m on a strict schedule, what with a doctor’s appointment with Schumacher this afternoon to fit. I hope to at least do a little art today, or at the very least finish up the two chess pieces I am currently working on.
I must say I went to bed last night bitterly disappointed with my Blue Jackets and their play last night, but hold the phone, the fall guy isn’t going to be Elvis or one of those dear, sweet lads laying it all out on the ice night after night. No, no, no, we are going straight up to the top rungs on the ladder: Owner, General Manager and Coach, in that order. Perhaps saying the fix was in last night is a stretch, but if The Dispatch doesn’t haul out some serious investigative reporter (or, whoops, didn’t Gannett chase them all away) to figure out why we let Anaheim, a basement-dweller, come from behind and spank us 5-3 last night, I’m never going to read one of their rags again.
So yes, my dreams were all strange again last night, with me and Urban Meyer trying to figure out the fate of the 2024 election (without any help from the dysfunctional Fourth Estate). Sure there were sexual innuendos, flirting with infidelity, Al Gore references, my dreams seem to be power-packed these days. Michael was there, faithfully keeping some order present and I knew in my heart to stay true to my marriage vows—always. I’m blaming YouTube’s videos for all my sexual questioning, I can’t wait to see how the Supreme Court decides to handle them and Wastebook (don’t expect hog-tied Congress to do anything significant) when deliberation on their fate starts February 21. Fingers crossed the good, sanish minds at The Wall Street Journal will put their coverage of this case where it belongs—on the front page right under the masthead—so I have something to work with when I create my second installment of a triptych I hope to complete, commenting on the Fourth Estate. Not sure about the third panel yet. That may take some time.
I must tell you how pleased and deeply indebted I am to Michael for working all day yesterday to tidy up almost all of the back patio and both porches! He did an incredible job (in such a short amount of time!), and keep in mind he was working with that left hand of his that has never properly healed from the fractures he sustained when he fell down the stairs in October of 2021. It’s an absolute miracle he didn’t break his neck in that fall, and that made a True Believer out of me in my Higher Power working in mysterious ways. Now all we need to do is touch up the chipped green paint on some of the trim outside and I will feel completely comfortable and happy to have visitors come to my art show in May.
Temperatures in Columbus are dropping back down into the 30s today and this weekend. Snow is expected Sunday. Mom and I have plans to visit a very historic church here in Columbus, the First Congregational Church, next to the Columbus Museum of Art. This church holds a very special place in my heart, as it was once home to a very, very meaningful and helpful support group for me, the Bipolar Bears. I was told about it in 2002 (?) I believe by someone at Harding Hospital at OSU. In a small chapel-ish room we bipolars would gather I believe every Wednesday night at 7:00 p.m. It was there that I began my long quest to understand what exactly bipolar disorder was, how in the world I was to cope (no surprise, I eventually gravitated to a group smoking copious amounts of weed), and a journey to figure out who I really was. It was a true shame the group eventually had to break up—hastened by well-meaning and heartfelt attempts to incorporate Southeast patients into the mix. One guy got agitated and broke a chair and sure enough that was the end of that. (And yes, he had bizarre “eyelash” tattoos.)
So now the sun is rising, but it’s unfortunately obscured by clouds. I still have my frame of reference though, my view out my den window on Purdy Alley and I’m chuckling because my little “hospital room” here is at least warm and my John McCain closet bathroom is not too far away. I feel like I’ve got Vincent Van Gogh keeping a watchful eye over me, which is nice. I notice I do not have a Van Gogh book in my collection; hmmmm….we need to remedy that situation immediately! It must of course come from the same series of books mom collected (and I subsequently did as well), published by Abrams (though I thought it was something like Rizzoli?). Me thinks I need to begin trolling Half Price Books to hopefully find this treasure. Finding it on EBay is just way too easy.
Bundle up, dear readers. I may take the lint brush to my Ivanka Trump black winter coat and wear that to church Sunday…along with my leopard faux fur hat. Or maybe I’ll just come in thrift store threads. Anything goes!
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