Things that make me restless: New Years Eve. There always seems to be something better to do and there’s way too much pressure to have fun. Labor Day. It’s meant to be a toast to the outgoing summer much like New Years Eve is a toast to the outgoing year and also requires a lot of fun. Friday nights. Friday nights seem to be the night to do something even when – no, especially when – you haven’t got anything in particular to do.

This Labor Day weekend, and this particular Friday night are both worse than normal. Summer didn’t come this year. It’s been cold and wet. No significant summer memories either, no sunny postcard memories for Silas with Summer 2004 written on the back (and I am only a little more famous and not even a little more rich and I still don’t even have a new camera). No barbecues, no fairs, no roller coasters, no cotton candy, no tan line even. I’m as pale as a shocked Nefartiti.

My Friday night restlessness is accompanied by Murph snoozing on the carpet, by the buzz and rattle of the air conditioner, and by Cartoon Network reruns. My Friday night restlessness is accompanied by neighbors coming and going to parties to more properly toast the outgoing summer that didn’t come. And while I’m flipping channels, I spot on my security channel, young lovers cavorting downstairs. No, I wasn’t watching it, waiting. I’ve said before that I wasn’t that far gone and I’m not still. If I ever turn to watching my security channel for entertainment, stimulation, or company, I promise that I will give up this project and rejoin the living.

But living alone and not going out (except for Murphy walks) you go a little nuts. It’s been four months. How can you not go at least a little nuts? Most of the time, I’m fine. I still have friends over. I still talk to friends on the phone. I still go outside with Murphy. And I read and paint and take pictures and write. And, for most of the time, I don’t notice my own exile. Friday nights are sometimes bad. This one right here in particular.

I did ship my first sold print today. That felt really nice. Sure, that doesn’t qualify as fame but it’s still really cool. Thank you, Julie.

I worry that I’m nuttier than I know. But then I remember Catch 22. So long as I know that I’m loony, I can’t be loony. So there, then, I mustn’t be loony. Lots of entirely sane people are probably restless on Friday nights, no?

On my Murphy walk, she finds a tennis ball treasure. And I let her keep it tonight.

SS