Cod. I like it. Its firm flesh has both the texture and the taste I like in a white fish. Yesterday, I thawed a piece of cod for last night’s dinner. I seasoned it with Italian seasoning, pepper, salt, garlic powder, and red pepper flakes, then seared it briefly on both sides before adding thin slices of zucchini to the pan. I then added canned tomatoes along with more of the same spices. With the piece of cod nestled among the tomatoes and zucchini, I covered the pan and poached the fish for a few minutes. Both the cod and the zucchini came out firm and extremely tasty. It was a healthy, low calorie meal. I felt proud of myself. And then I munched on pretzels, completely obliterating all the just pride I had in “eating well.” Oh, well. There’s tonight. I can try again.
+++
My right shoulder hurts like bloody hell. I must have slept wrong on it. When I move, even a little, I feel pain in a spot that I cannot reach (not that I’d know what to do if I could). The pain woke me up over and over and over again in the early morning hours. Once, I must have been in a dream-world as I awoke; I felt a soft hand caressing the shoulder and heard a woman’s voice ask if that made it feel better. I started to answer that it did, but suddenly I was awake and there was no hand or voice, just an annoying, piercing pain. I suppose I should look for the heating pad. Or ice packs. I never remember which is supposed to be good for such pains.
+++
Music, I think, is a stand-in for lengthy attempts to explain one’s outlook on life and the way one views the world around us. I spent time last night and again this morning listening to music, following links to several tunes sent to me by a friend. It’s interesting to pay close attention to both the sounds of instruments and, when the music is accompanied by lyrics, to the words that accompany them. Together, those sounds and those words can reveal a great deal about the person who finds them appealing. That’s not always the case, of course, but knowing a person’s musical tastes and, especially, specific pieces a person finds especially captivating can be almost like reading a private diary. Okay. That may be taking it a bit far. But maybe not.
+++
Five months ago today, my wife died. My wonderful, loving wife. The woman who made it possible for me to believe I mattered. The person who convinced me there was a place for me on this planet. Her absence still aches more than I can put into words. The confidence in myself she gave me is no longer intact. I know I can’t keep going on forever marking these awful “anniversaries” with tears and anger and despair, but I don’t yet know how else to acknowledge these painful dates. One does not celebrate the anniversary of a loved-one’s death; one simply marks it and tries to use the occasion to add another threadbare bandage to cover a gaping wound in one’s life. Eventually, the wound will become a scar. And we can live with scars, whereas wounds can become deadly if left untended.
+++
I finished watching Undercover last night. I did not start anything else, nor did I return to any of the several series I have begun but not yet finished. I wasn’t in the mood for television. I was in the mood to have a long, unstructured conversation with someone interesting and interested. But, instead, daydreamed and left the dinner dishes in the sink, where they remain. In a few minutes, I will take care of that. If my shoulder permits. It continues to hurt like holy hell. I wish I had a stash of morphine handy. Or even Advil.
+++
I am making progress. Significant progress. I am spending time with people I like. I am interacting with people with whom I feel I am developing especially meaningful connections. But my perpetual lack of self-confidence keeps rearing its head, insisting I ask myself whether overtures of friendship that I perceive are, instead, expressions of compassion from acquaintances. I sabotage myself by allowing self-doubt to infect even the most enjoyable circumstances and interactions. That self-doubt and its twin, skepticism about others’ motives, prevents me from taking the initiative in building acquaintanceships into friendships. Yet I tell myself I am making progress. It takes time to rebuild. There are times—most times—when I wish I could get a personality transplant.
A friend mentioned a psychotherapist to me a few weeks ago. I decided I might explore talking to this psychotherapist to discuss issues of stress and related “stuff” that I think would be best handled than simply bottled up. I still haven’t called her, though. I am not quite sure what to ask. Maybe that’s where I start. Let her ask probing questions that will magically lift a veil, taking with it all my anxieties and troubles. Yeah.
+++
Today, I will have lunch with a friend, again at one of my favorite places, Las Americas. I know already that I will order two tacos: one lengua and one barbacoa. I would like to order a taco al pastor, as well, and perhaps a taco de carne asada, plus a few more. But I would burst. They’re big tacos. I have a vision that four or five people would each order two tacos of different varieties and would then share them. That’s the way to experience a broad assortment of food. Too bad I don’t feel comfortable approaching strangers in restaurants and asking if they would share a bite or two of their meal. Or maybe it’s good that I don’t feel comfortable doing that; I could be treated badly if I asked the wrong person/people. I do look forward to my visit with my friend; it has been way too long. I am interested in learning from him what has been going on in his life since last we visited.
+++
I just moved in precisely the wrong way, causing pain to explode from my shoulder like a volcanic eruption. If this doesn’t get better, soon, I’ll have to ask a doctor for something to ease the damn pain. Typing doesn’t help, so this is it for a while.
