Looking for Uplift in a Downdraft

I made it to the 17th last year. This year, it was over by the 11th. So much for my post-a-day routine. I’d feel worse about it, but it was a mercy killing.

It’s one of those things you laugh about shortly after rolling out of bed in the morning. Not always—I’ve had mornings when I’ve awakened feeling every bit as depressed or more when I went to bed. At least I know this is straight-up seasonal.

These are the times when you have to remind yourself you’ve done a couple of things; you’re not entirely worthless. In my case I maintained my Christmas-season streak of repairing or otherwise putting things in order left long undone in my office by taking down and gluing the base of my primary bookshelf. It was on its side in the middle of the floor in my west wing for 24 hours with my heaviest coffee table books on top to hold it fast until it cured.

The view from my office chair Saturday. I was chagrined to realize I’ve lived here long enough for my bookcase to leave an outline on the wall when I took it down. That got cleaned, too. And having made a clean spot....

I regret not being able to show all the wonderful titles here, their placement on the bottom shelf having contributed to the fracture requiring repair, but I needed to angle them for balance.

The bulk of yesterday was spent getting the bookcase back up, with as much of that fine San Luis Valley dust I could remove from the tops of so many books at a time with rapidly depleting cans of compressed air. Everything came together nicely in time for sundown, which I spent twitching in my chair in front of my desk, struggling to focus on my work-in-progress, a years-overdue concluding novel to a trilogy that’s already 351 pages long, but progressing—forgive me, I’m going to say “literally”—one sentence at a time. 

I sat in a daze before my monitor. I started a piece on my oldest cat, whom we’re likely to lose in 2020. Upon typing out a list of sad things, with a break to go downstairs and take some photos of the lonely elderkitty in his bed in the kitchen, I decided that was enough. I’d punished myself sufficiently. More to the point, there was no reason to punish my audience at all. 

Not yet, anyway. Certainly not when I’m in this kind of a mood.

So many little tchotchkes. So much dust.

Two spaceships from different universes reconcile the randomness of existence with the Tower Buddha.

I wanted to blame it all on a desire to break my alcohol and tobacco fasts, but I already knew what was behind that. And if I didn’t drift out when I could have at 8 p.m. and picked up a 12-pack and a deck of cowboy killers, it’s because I knew that, for three or four hours of overindulgence, I’d wake up even more depressed in the morning. Bloated, and with bad breath, too.

Everything back in order and shiny-clean to boot. My favorite music is playing. I can’t get my creative engine to turn over to save my life. My battery’s dead, Jim.

The nights are the worst, and they’re the longest in the winter. But I got through it, and so did Otis the Elderkitty. Today will be one minute and fifteen seconds longer than yesterday. I’ll take it.