Successors of Granato

A bumpy ride sleeping the last few days, what with little sleep on the weekend even with benefit of alcohol. (A half pint on Saturday, red wine on Sunday.) Did not sleep at all between Friday noon and Saturday evening; then perhaps two hours, and awake through late Sunday afternoon. Two shifts on Gov Is, one on a bright, breezy, sunny day, and then on a cold and wet one where my gloves got so soaked and cold I had to take them off to warm my hands up. Someone gave me a pair of sporting grip gloves, and I still have those, though my own—the Craft gloves—may now really be lost for good. Perhaps took them out of the pocket when in the john at the Cultural Center.

Little work on Saturday, mainly chivvying runners near the ferry terminals. By contrast, I finished up on Sunday by riding a rattling truck and helping to pick up perhaps a hundred orange cones, or “delineators” as they are known. This took us on a thoroughgoing tour of the island, with view of a mysterious cruise liner, thirty stories tall, docked in Brooklyn, and a tent encampment on the south side of the island. While marshaling, or ‘athlete experiencing’ a few blocks west of the Gov Is terminal, I snapped some shots of an overcast day and the lower tip of Manhattan.

All grey except for the SI Ferry.

I’d decided to locate and wear my CPTC rain pants for Sunday (rain predicted, as we all knew) but when I found them (in one of the Miele suitcases) I found I could barely get them on over my abdominal bulge. They leave me with a real muffin-top. I saw that belly-bulge coming in as far back as 2012, 2009 even, but it was slight. Now I can’t wear anything I wore then, if it has a normal waistband. Gym tomorrow, maybe run tomorrow (Tuesday) too. Wednesday looks rainy, as does much of the next week.

I’m thinking of doing the dishes in the morning then going to TMPL, from whence I’ll jog over to the river and then all the way up into Riverside Pk. We’re talking a serious 600-1000 cal loss every day just to be able to run normally again, let alone fit into clothes. I can’t brace the idea of weighing myself.

But I was talking about the broken sleep cycles… During one of the longer bouts in dreamland, I had a recurrence of that incompleted-college-class type of dream. This one involved the sc dragging on and on for years, even worse than it really did. Here I’m going to see Granato after five years or so, because for some reason I need the knife again. Apparently the job was never finished. His office has moved to a large hospital or clinic building, but his obese mystery-meat assistant is still in attendance. (Note: this does not reflect any actual aide, and may be coloration from the nogs and mystery-meats one encounters at nruns.) Some anxiety about whether my paperwork is in order. I barely see G. He is being succeeded by a younger surgeon I’ve never met before. I despair of being treated as though this were my first approach to the cycle, a cycle I thought I finished long ago.

I once told Emily S. about these recurrent dreams and she thought they sounded absolutely horrible.

For some reason, instead of hunkering down and dashing off that Truth Seeker piece, or the one about The Angry Years, I became determined to make myself a ginger-orange smoothie and some vegan chili, so that took up much of the midday and afternoon. The kitchen is still lightless, and now I’m pretty sure the dishwasher is gone for good.

Watched part of Foreign Correspondent today via YouTube. There is no credit for Vincent Sheean, though he wrote the original book. A batch of screenwriters winged it and turned it into a suspense comedy. Robert Benchley has a walkon as a dipsomaniac journo in a homburg.

I have not sent in a rent check. Tomorrow.