Writing this thing

This post has nothing to do with the Wenonah posts. Please ignore it and pay attention to the others. But keep in mind that as I write about my past things come up that I haven't thought of in years. I asked my Aunt Gert, my mother's sister, the one who dated Ramesh, when her father died. She told me 1956. She took me to the zoo that day. I loved my Poppy Glading. He was as distant and removed as my father's father. He died of emphysema, the same disease that killed my father's father.
I dreamed last night that my mother sent me emails congratulating me on my birthday. In the dream I was elated but sad because she sent them to my gmail account which I rarely check.
What the fuck does that mean? What does it mean to spend time looking at your past? In the present I'm under enormous stress. The NYC Health Dept is under pressure cuz they fucked up and now they're fucking all my clients and they're fucking me. I am the man who has to solve their problems. Calm their nerves. Make certain they are in compliance. In the meantime my mother is sending me emails.
This is a hard row to hoe.
It was a warm day today after a nasty rain. I took the day off because I was exhausted and afraid.
My dogs didn't care. They just wanted me near them.
Outside over all of us is the world; and outside over all of that is God. We act and we bend and we fail and care but it is with his grace that we are at our best. I thank God that I am alive. Once I was nearly dead. Now I just get emails from the dead.