Is there any point in commenting on the weather?  I’ve always ridiculed Chicago’s media for treating snowstorms and heatwaves as hard news.  In this city, lousy weather is not news.  A perfect 70 degree day with sunshine and blooming daisies is far more newsworthy than the bitter cold or oppressive humidity for which I (of western European stock) was not evolved.  But this most recent spell was at least instructive.  I learned that when I abandon my routine I turn into a hirsute snarling beast.  For a few weeks (an amalgam of holidays and and snow days) I ate a lot of bad food.  I don’t mean tasty holiday delicacies like plum pudding and roast goose but processed food-like shit such as Oreos, cheddar flavored potato chips, soda and cheap waxy milk chocolate.  I exercised sporadically and all but abandoned my meditation discipline.   I didn’t leave the house on Monday, bought puppy pads for the dogs and wore pajamas all day.  Yesterday, I took a shower and that felt like a victory.  Before settling into my late evening orgy of TV and snack foods I checked my business email account.  I quickly ripped into a client who I felt wasn’t taking me seriously enough.   As I endured the next morning’s traffic I could feel anger and anxiety building as I replayed the previous night’s pique and carefully constructed and emended my justifications.

I arrived in my sanctuary of an office, meditated, exercised, meditated again. It will take days or weeks to get back to a reasonable level of serenity.  Some people can afford to slip around and break rules but I’m like a convict on parole.  I’m not some people.  I have an addictive personality.  The more deadly forms of abuse are in remission but the faulty hardware remains.  I have a tendency toward anxiety and depression; these are my natural states and I have to work hard to prevent entropy.   I suppose we are all evolved to be expert hunter-gatherers.  Some of us have easily adapted to urban life and some must work harder.   I so love a sofa, a plate of chicken wings and a reliable connection to Netflix. But here I go… so hum.

I was hoping that my medical malpractice science-fiction story would be ready for consumption but now I see that it needs a lot of work.  I’m a neophyte with fiction so I will take my time and struggle through it.  In the meantime, here’s another poem from my personal archive:

The Death of Plasticman

I ate nothing but brittle things:
Cold cereal no milk, stale Chips Ahoy, no beverages.
I turned off the humidifier
And collapsed like that old hotel,
The dynamite expertly placed.
My eyes rolled around.
Feet waddled aimless, shod, smokey and crispy.
My wife coughed
While the cat stood
And swept me up, brush and pan

(This poem was first published at http://sobs.org/poetry/the-death-of-plasticman.html The Site of Big Shoulders)