Somewhere in the Afterlife, in Purgatory or Outer Hades or the Unspeakable Place, my Michael is crying out to me and thinking I can’t hear him. Because of course I can’t. But it’s worse than that. He thinks no one can hear him. And no one will. Not for a long time. So I’m praying to get a message through to him. That I think about him all the time, love him dearly and need his help. And I beg him to send some sort of sign back to me.
We could be together again very soon. I keep thinking the future is black, utterly dreadful. I’d be bound to put myself in circumstances where I’d get myself killed in an honorable fashion. But would we be together then? Or both shouting in the darkness? For the present I tell myself Moki is with me always. I talk to him, tell him we’ll be together one way or another.
With all those rosaries, and prayers to St. Jude, surely I must have saved Moki from the worst fate of all. My ambition now has to be to bring him back. Feel that he is by my side. Talk to him and have him answer me.
Such thoughts, with attendant tears, were going through my mind when I was at Mass this evening (STPA). I arrived before the Gospel, left at the start of Communion. I made First Friday Mass (STP) the other night as well.
I need a job. I need to solve this rent problem. I need to get out from under that judgment. All told, I now have between four and five thousand, including the cash in the duck and maybe £1300 at HSBC. I get job and all worries go away.
It’s 4:38 am. Will I get any sleep at all in the next few hours? No v today, after drinking far too much for four or five days. Severe hangover sinus headache till mid-afternoon. Planned to go to TMPL, but time drew on and I decided to be happy with just church. I was a little late because I was determined to throw out the leftover chili and shepherd’s pie from the past few weeks. Sushi from WholeFoods for dinner. Well you know, with the money I saved on vodka.
Took my Viviscal and collagen tablets. And EV. And then took a Fluoxetine. Dr. Simbercoff prescribed these for Moki a couple of years ago, he never took them.
Death of Hoff took up my attention for much of a day. Wednesday. The day the internet and phones went out in the late afternoon and I had to call in the Verizon man for Thursday and postpone the Friday de-installation till Tuesday the 6th. Thoughts about Hoff focused themselves in a letter to Zagria. Little Jules G-P had the notion that Hoff was totally obscure, and continued to work in the old practice through the 80s. I of course know this not to be the case. Told Zagria how I happened to know that Hoff had moved to Magnolia. This episode was left out in the obits that appeared in the New York Times and elsewhere.
An infestation of rats continues. They scurry and rustle when I head to the kitchen. The rat trap was useless; I’ve never seen a rat caught in one of those. I am getting some rat poison tomorrow. Strangely, found the Sentry Safe manual, and then its envelope, in the vicinity of the dishwasher. They stole it away and munched at its corners. Like guinea pigs. I haven’t noticed munchy-bites taken out of other papers.
Tomorrow I take down my desk. And put it where? Or just clean it off. So much more space in the conversation pit since I threw out bags and bags of magazines and newspapers and trash papers. I first went to work on the newspapers back when Moki was here. September? October? Was proud to put out the last of the vodka bottles, such as they were, on Sept. 20. Not a mess of little pints. Some 1.75s and lots of liters, in the hall floor, rolling on the living room floor, covering a storage tub in the hall, on the pantry butcher block. It must have taken a dozen trips out to the bins.
