Saturday, July 13, 2024
Trump shot in Pennsylvania
In bed Lights out at 10:15 or so with a very painful right hip, and up at 4:40 to let Lilly out for which I had to use my walker to take some weight off the hip. The pain started yesterday, was relieved by sitting, and was worse when walking or putting weight on the right leg/hip. I fell asleep at some point and woke up at 8:20.
Prednisone, day 62, 10 mg., day 5. I took my pill at 5, wondering whether my painful hip was a recurrence of PMR. Do I need to go back to 15 mg.? I took a 5 mg. pill at 5:20, hoping it would relieve some of the pain and let me walk which is quite painful. I had an apple for breakfast sometime after the pill(s?). I took 1,000 mg. of Tylenol at 3 p.m., after awakening from a nap on the bed by which time the day had been largely lost to the hip pain and painful standing and walking. Emergency room tomorrow?
Professor Biden. I watched him talking to a small crowd in Michigan yesterday before a bigger rally scheduled for later. He was like a wind-up puppet, rotely spitting out bullet point lines, frequently unable to finish his sentences or a thought ("well, anyway, . ..), frequently repeating his stock phrases ("not a joke," "I really mean it," etc. What got to me mostly though was his statement that he was "a professor, full professor at the Univesity of Pennsylvania", an Ivy League university. Pure Biden bullshit. Truth: he was the Benjamin Franklin Presidential Practice Professor, an honorary position that consisted of giving occasional talks to students, but never teaching a course, doing research, or publishing. He can't resist self-enhancing lies and never has been able to. He's as known in the press corps and in Washington for them as he is for his gaffes when he unwisely tells the truth.
The Seventh Seal, Ingmar Bergman.
Death: I am Death.
The knight: Have you come for me?
Death: I've been at your side for some time.
The knight: I've been aware of that.
What happens when I die? I started out writing "when we die" but realized that it's my own death I'm thinking about and I know at least some of the answers, or at least I think I do. Depending on the circumstances of my death, my inert body, i.e., corpse, will be taken to Schmidt & Bartelt funeral home for preparation for burial in a cardboard box in the green burial lot at Forest Home Cemetery. With no embalming or preservatives applied to it to deter decomposition, its burial will happen relatively soon after I die. It's what will happen after that rapid burial that I'm thinking of. What happens to all the stuff with which I have surrounded myself over 83 or 84 or however many years I will have lived? I think I know the answer of course but perhaps it's good to think about it. Or perhaps not. In any event, I should leave some disposition wishes.
My clothing will be given away, mostly to Repairers of the Breach on Vliet Street, the balance probably to Goodwill, SVDP, or the House of Peace. Some will simply be trashed.
My car should be offered to Andy.
My books are a challenge. Who would want them? I collected the leatherbound and boxed sets over many years and read many though not all of them, starting with the elegantly bound, black Moby Dick. I used to read the opening paragraph from that volume to my 1L Property classes in November when first-year students were getting nervous about upcoming exams. I have a little collection of poetry books that I suspect no one will be interested in and perhaps the same is true of all the books. I'm thinking I would like the books to go to Peter, Lizzie, Drew, and Ellis, but I am probably being foolish about this as I imagine there will be little if any interest in them, even the great classics to which I was introduced as part of a liberal arts education. Will any of the kids seek or get such an education in the world they are entering? Perhaps Geri should first select any books that she wants to keep, then give Sarah and Andy 'first dibs', then Steve and David. Micaela used to say she wanted my Elie Wiesel collection, but we haven't heard from her in months now; are we 'ghosted'? Anything left over should be offered to a library.
My paintings and drawings. I suppose that Geri will hold on to any she wants to keep and then give "first dibs" to Sarah and Andy and then to Steve and David. Are there any friends who would want any of them as a keepsake? Probably not. Realistically, there will probably be few takers and most of my artwork will be trashed.
My memoir. Sarah and Andy were each given a copy of the memoir and neither showed any interest in it. I gave one to Kitty also years ago and she too was silent about it. It reminded her of our childhood at 7303 S. Emerald Avenue in Chicago, of her strained relationship with our father throughout much of her life, and of a traumatic occurrence with our maternal grandfather early in her life. It took me years to research and compose it and, although it contains some interesting history of the years I have lived through, at 279 double-sided pages, it suffers from TMI for any reader other than me. I'm glad that I wrote it even though I am its only reader. I keep the bound copy on the end table next to my TV room recliner and have frequently referred to it, often for entries in this journal. I have one bound copy left plus the original looseleaf pages. Geri has shown no interest in reading it, but I should leave the bound copy for her. Should I have the looseleaf pages bound at Kinko's? For whom and to what end?
I'm coming up on the 2nd anniversary of starting my journal and it's all published online as my blog as well as sitting on my downstairs desk as a hard copy. Not surprisingly and I guess gratefully, the blog has no followers. No one has ever asked to read it. I print off each day's entries and save them on a pile atop my desk in the basement. Will anyone look at it after I'm gone or does it go directly to trash? Eventually of course it will be trashed along with all of most of my drawings and paintings. Memento, homo, quia pulvis es . . .
Memorabilia. I still have the baby book my mother kept about me during my infancy. I have old family photos, the program from my high school graduation, my father's discharge papers from the Marines in World War II, my entire official record from my years in the Marines, photos from my law firm, and photos of kids and grandchildren. For a long time, I had my Uncle Bud's and Aunt Mary's mimeographed living quarters regulations from when Bud worked on the Manhattan Project at Los Alamos, N.M. but somehow I discarded it with some other stuff. In any case, I have a lot of memorabilia that I suspect will end up following those Manhattan Project regs.
My 61 years old Marine uniforms, my academic robe, trash.
Is it good to think about such matters now? I suppose I should start trashing some of this abundant "stuff" now to save Geri from some work, the stuff in the basement, some of the stuff in my closets, Swedish death cleaning chores. Even the process of just thinking about it is a vivid reminder of Memento, homo, quia pulvis es . . .
. . . . . ..
I stopped writing, but not thinking dread thoughts, when news of the attempted assassination was broadcast. Tomorrow's another day, Scarlett, and one even more dangerous than today.
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