September 1, 2014
Happy Birthday to me. I was going to say I didn’t sleep well, but I think I slept perfectly well and my body tried to get me up when it was rested. People note that fasting gives you energy, and, counter-intuitively, this is true. Sunday was day 3. Wonderful sermon in the morning, which, like a poem, was lovely without being perfectly comprehensible. We ended up blessing Glenda’s son, which was well even if I was not certain of the reason. Rehearsal in the evening was a horror, probably more because of my mood, or because of my expectation that it would be somehow joyful or surprising. I’m not interested in singing popular music; whether that’s the fact at the root of my dissatisfaction I don’t know. What we are singing is all crowd-pleasers, and nothing can be said against that. Given my feelings, the appropriate gesture is an exit. The expectation of birthday drinks afterwards did not materialize.
Greedily adding up the birthday greetings on Facebook. It’s pathetic.
So, it’s September and W’s solemn oath that our agreement would result in rent–or a mortgage payment, or whatever it is–in August is belied. Whether he is an oily player out to see how much advantage he can take, or an honest dad trying to make his way in a difficult world, the outcome is the same for me. I really have no way of knowing. My reflex to believe what people say, to take them at face value, is not useful here. Or ever, much, now that I think of it.
Circe crying piteously downstairs. I go to see what the problem is. She looks like she’s seen a ghost. I do not see it.