Just finished Joan Didion’s latest, Blue Nights.

A meditation on loss, aging, and grief, the book doesn’t compare well with her Year of Magical Thinking. Honestly, Didion and Sontag are people I’m supposed to be reading but all-in-all I don’t much care for either . Just sayin’…….. Blue Nights has the occasional sharply incised observation but my overall impression is over-indulged murk. I guess she is permitted: she’s 76 and is dealing with the decline of her physical capabilities, terrified of cognitive deficits, and her personal circle is diminishing. Tonight is my last night off-rotation at work. Here begins that vague dread and fervent prayers that all my patients are routine and un-challenging. My co-worker, Amy and I often talk about the necessity of restoration. Neither one of us has figured out just what is the necessary restorative. It’s a joke of sorts that we make when we say, “ah, they work at _____________________ Hospital, too!” when we see someone who looks ‘bone-weary and tired to his soul.’ A common complaint at work is everyone notices that they become akratic. I think it is due to ego-depletion. Who knows. I find repeating, “I love my check. I love my check,” to be helpful. There is a syndrome associated with going to work: vague backache, vague headache, a strange queasiness of the stomach, and a suspicion one’s life is a dreary captivity-narrative. It’s not so bad. I’m paid rather well, relatively speaking. I’ve never been anywhere that I didn’t actually look-forward to going to work before now. Still, I guess that is why it is called “work” and not “fun!”


The naughty neighbor has made his offer. I find it quite an uninteresting offer. He’s one of those guys too impressed with his own dick. (I’m not.) I add the naughty neighbor situation to the OKCupid and fagHarmony detritus. I think I’ll have my head examined before I entertain any further notions of being “sociable.”