Not too good at the moment. I really am at low ebb. I have so many websites to rescue and correct. And not the energy to do it. I’m 68 and feel 88. The only thing energizing me is this diary idea with you. I have in you the one person who hasn’t heard all my stories. Better (worse, whatever), the stories are great stories. I was once, many times, a hero. In many disciplines, moments, contexts, times. And now I can barely walk. My wife is estranged. Because I have learned she is not on any side but hers. I still love her fiercely, but she is Boudica and I am only King Arthur..
She hid from me the fact we were $50,000 in debt. Until they started closing down the electric and phones. So I fixed it. We declared bankruptcy. Which we are still in. I had been thinking we were okay. Never was looking for a palatial retirement. But then she bombed me with penury. Okay. I can live with too. Somehow she is not responsible. Legally, I no longer exist. Pat owns everything. Why there will never be a funeral for R. F. Laird.
She does love me. Tells me every night at bedtime. What she can’t do is acknowledge that she has a nasty streak in her that makes all her children weak in her presence and incapable of talking to her. We have a 55 year old daughter living in our house, and she is still scared of her mother. They don’t talk. She warned me. Mother will control you. No. She won’t. Didn’t. But she fights. Fights like a fucking tiger the first time she spots a weakness.
And I do love her. Just as I loved your mother. Women are nuts. I know that. I have a 20,000 IQ. You have to love women. They make and remake the world.
Where am I now? Alive. Barely.
Thinking you haven’t bough this yet. You should. A way for you to be a dozen years older than me for once.
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