Tonight, I’ll pack up and get ready to leave in the morning.

There’s always that feeling at the end of the summer, when the humidity lifts and there’s a tantalizing taste of cooler autumn in the air. It’s alway seems to call for a rebuke: “Another summer gone, and what did you do with it?” There are memories of days in the sun, but they slip away so quickly. If you had to write an essay, just what did you do on your summer vacation? The older you get, the harder it is to remember: A walk in the sun, a day on the beach, a moment floating in a pool when the light dazzles on everything it touches.

The end of the summer always makes me feel philosophical.

The hard part of being unemployed is that you live without structure to keep you grounded. And yet, obviously I’m busy. I do more blogging than ever, splitting my time between this one and the other.

Some days (maybe most), I hate blogging so much, I want to run away from home. Like a cop, I’m exposed to a constant stream of negative news, and it takes its psychic toll. That’s why I so treasure my time away (plus, a whole week without using a mouse is an unbelievable respite for my poor battered arms).

So far, the only thing that keeps me here is you, the readers. Over the years, many of you have become friends. (And I’m as fascinated with your stories as you are with mine.) But I won’t be here forever, at least not at my current pace. I can’t. My health dictates otherwise.

But for now, it’s the end of the summer. And soon I’ll be on my way home.

Oh, have I mentioned how much I hate packing? I always take far too much stuff, because I never know what the weather will be like. (Last year, it went down to the low 40s at night.) Plus, I take too much stuff. Always. Well, at least this year’s load looks smaller than last year’s.

There’s so much evil crap going on lately, I can’t wait to get away. Not just my hands, but my brain and my psyche really needs the break. Arghh.

One more day!

When I woke up this morning, I panicked: My vision was blurry again. Then I remembered to put on my glasses — and I was fine.

Just laid down for a short nap, and when I woke up, one eye was all blurry and it’s still not normal. It’s the eye I read with…

After fifteen months of grueling therapeutic massage, I am happy to announce that for the first time in almost three years, I can actually stand on my right foot. Just for ten seconds or so, but still.

You may take that for granted, but trust me: I feel like I scaled Mt. Everest. It was a particularly grueling session today (I did, in fact, scream a couple of times because the pain was so bad — breaking apart scar tissue is really tough, I’m not normally a screamer) but we continue to see progress every week, and that makes it worth it.

I often wonder why guys in general (not all men, but most) are such babies about this kind of helpful body work. Just try to talk to a man in pain about acupuncture – his eyes will practically roll back in their head. (It doesn’t hurt at all, in case you were wondering.)

Anyway, I can stand. I’m so happy.

P.S. This is the kind of work we’ve been doing:

I was reading this article about how women, if they figure out and understand the patterns in their past failed relationships, are better positioned to have a healthy one.

So I took a look at my pattern of semi-serious relationships: The main thing they had in common was that, with only one exception, they were musicians. (The other one mostly played with people’s heads.) One played bass and drums, the Dead Ex played the banjo and guitar, one was a piano player, another one played rhythm guitar, the next one was a drummer, the next one played bass, guitar and keyboard, another played bass, and yet another one played keyboards. (Oddly enough, these lips have never touched those of a lead guitarist.)

So what I figured out is, it wasn’t so much that I wanted relationships — I wanted a band!

The next time, I’m gonna make it simple. I’ll just look for someone who owns a studio.