11/18, Wee Hours

12:31 a.m.

A Late Return

The flights back from Austin were on time and our connection was smooth. Remember that I am grateful for these things even as I add that flying is uncomfortable in countless ways at all times now. My cervical spine feels an inch shorter than it was this morning; all cells have been squeezed for several hours and then released -- twice -- and digestion has slowed. I oughta be in bed, but I'm just so darn happy to be home that I'm reluctant to let go of consciousness.

Wes watered the plants and they look good; the pile of mail was on the sofa. A fly, happy that I turned the heat up for a while, is buzzing happily (and noisily) around the kitchen. There was nothing to eat here but potato chip dregs. I took some chicken stew out of the freezer for tomorrow. Much to do, to catch up, and brother-in-law Marc might have a little mechanical assembly work for me. Must talk with him tomorrow.

Odd thing -- there was something in the mailbox addressed to my long-ago ex who stalked me and then killed himself back in 1997. I've never received anything for him here, not even back then, that I recall. But to actually leave this apartment for six years and then come back and live in it again for four years and then to get something in his name? Bizarre. I didn't open it, though I was curious as to what it was. Not a personal letter, obviously. I wrote "Deceased - Return to Sender" on it.

The tour was good. Our last two gigs paid us more than we expected, and I've come back with a nice deposit for the 10 days. I feel like a squirrel, garnering nuts for winter.