Movement, physicality, in-person things: Visit with family, stairs setbacks and successes, the alcohol front

Monday 8/25/25

Well, I need to get back to this journal, don't I?

I've been away a lot, because I've not been doing much. It's harder and harder not to leave this world. For an entire week, I didn't even so much as go outside, which means, of course, no stairs were ran in a week, which is the longest time in years. Maybe I shouldn't say "of course"--I could run stairs in the building, if it came to it or you were or a mind. I talked to no one. Not that I talk to many people, because I basically have no one. Then there are all of the things about evil people I have to put on this journal, and I hate doing that. It's one of the last things I want to be doing in a life that is already worse than being in hell. But I must do it. I've been planning. Just because I wasn't "doing anything," doesn't mean I wasn't doing things in my head.

Then there's the drinking. It's been a while since I mentioned when I last had a drink. Is my streak still intact? I know there are people who come to these pages hoping to see that bad things have happened to me, and would love to read that alcohol is "back on." I have no temptation to drink; what alcohol represents is effacement. Exit from this world. If I began drinking again as I once did, that would probably be the end for me. If anything puts alcohol in position, so to speak, or on the table, in theory, it would be that. Because no one can endure anything close to this. And that was true a long, long time ago, and it's much worse now.

Anyway, yesterday marked 3325 days, or 475 weeks, without a drink.

On Wednesday of last week, after that stair gap of a week, I forced myself to go to the Monument. Walked three miles, ran five circuits of stairs, did 100 push-ups, then did the same on Thursday. There was some regression. That's how fast it can happen. What does "some" mean for me? Not a lot. A bit of feeling in the lower calves. Nothing to change what I'm doing. A useful reminder, though. You're only as good as your last circuit of stairs. By which I mean, you're really only as good as your next set of stairs.

Nothing Friday, then walked three miles, did 150 push-ups, and ran ten circuits of stairs in the Monument on Saturday--now we're talking--and then another five circuits yesterday, 100 more push-ups, and five miles of walking. Total number of Monument circuits since July 31 stands at eighty-five. This is not that good and it's not that bad.

I went to Trader Joe's. Hadn't been in a while. Part of coming back, too, slight errand though this may be. Eating the same thing every day, rather than the same three or four things--such are the restrictions of my diet--as per usual, but that makes a difference, too. Forgot to get kale, a staple for me. Went to the Golden Goose and made an arugula substitute. It'll do until kale is secured.

Sat outside Starbucks yesterday reading Kafka's diaries. Woman comes over to me, asks what I'm reading. Tries to impress me by saying she's reading Isabelle Allende garbage. Is surprised that I'm reading Kafka. I get this a lot. Because of how I look. I don't look like your standard publishing industry and/or writer type.

This is always insulting and speaks to how dim and prescriptive in their thoughts that most people are. Learning this is Kafka, she apologizes for interrupting me, because one's Kafka reading shouldn't be broken in on, but otherwise it's fine, I guess? I'm not someone who minds this kind of thing, minus the other aspects that make me mind it. The prejudgment, the bragging that is done by a moron, etc. She then starts talking about reading The Metamorphosis in high school, as her Yorkshire terrier sits at my feet in a pink shirt.

My mom, sister, and nieces and nephew came for a visit this month. It was great to see my mom again. And more importantly, I think she had a really good time on her trip, which is what matters most to me. That she was happy.

Amelia, my erstwhile, or former, buddy, said not a word to me. Honestly not one. She's only five and a half, but I worry about the person she might end up being. She's often not nice. She has friends, but that's almost a little surprising. Not that plenty of terrible adults don't have what they call friends, though friendship is something that scarcely exists in this world now. True, adult friendship, I mean. But she is still my buddy, or I am hers, anyway.

At her insistence, we went on a Duck Boat tour again, as we had done a couple years ago--minus my mom, who wasn't here; which is to say, I had to go on a Duck Boat tour again. It doesn't feel right as an actual Bostonian being on a Duck Boat. But it was okay.

They had lobster--or most of them did, anyway--at this outdoor place not far from South Station that I had recommended, knowing that lobster was on the Boston wish list for this trip, but I don't eat lobster, so I just stood there, save for when I took a short walk. I pretty much wasn't going to be able to work out for the day, due to the visit, and wanted to walk at least three miles and do my push-ups, some of which I got done in this little park outside of South Station on this short perambulation.

Lilah and Charlie were adamant about doing the Monument, so after the Duck Boats, we drove over to there. They were about to close and weren't going to let anyone else in, but they did because it was me--stair guy--and up we went. They both did pretty well, and as we were coming down I said, "Okay, up we go again!" and Lilah wanted no part of this. I said to her, "Not even for the glory? What about the glory?" The glory also failed to compel her, so I told her which door to exist and where she would find Grammie waiting for her on a bench, and me and the lad went up again.

Now that his sister wasn't there, I was free to be somewhat verbally abusive--in a fun way--which a boy that age thinks is funny. He was cooked by the time we were done. Meanwhile, I was thinking I would have made an excellent high school hockey coach in 1978, when you could say anything, and the worse it was, the better. Ah.

That was Friday. I didn't see everyone again until Monday. I wasn't supposed to see my sister and the kids again, because they were going to the Science Museum and I was taking the train to Dedham to my aunt and uncle's to see my mom, but I floated the idea of going up the Blue Hills--which is five minutes from my aunt and uncle's house in Milton, where my dad is buried--to my sister, saying they'd still have plenty of time for the museum. The Blue Hills is one of my favorite places. It was as a kid, and it still is. When I go there now by myself, I run up and down the big hill, which is fairly Zulu.

My dad took me here a bunch when I was a kid. You'd have birthday parties here, as I said to the two older children. Now, birthday parties are these pricey affairs at fancy places. We were excited to hike up this big hill, the highest point on the eastern seaboard. The kids seemed confused by this, which made me sad. There are so many ways you despair for the world these days. It's like everything deepens that despair. That's where we've gotten to.

Charlie and Lilah went up alone with me. I would say that they're both fairly...passive. You don't really know if they're having a good time or not. I've always been impassioned. I'm no less impassioned now, even after all that has happened and the state of my basically unlivable life. Were I not in the situation I'm in, and I went to the Blue Hills today, I could spend the day there, and be thrilled. Fascinated. Lost in wonder and thought. And observation and study.

I asked the kids many questions, about school, their friends, what they do, their hopes, their dreams. You get a bit more with me, too; stuff about Shakespeare and Lewis and Clark on this particular day. A sort of different uncle than the regular sort. But it was nice it just being the three of us. This was the "red" trail, which is the hardest, and the only one I go up. I should try one of the others. I'm only aware of where the "blue" one is, though, I think. The red is next to the ski slope. I have these favorite parts of it. One such part is this wash--a classic New England wash--that is just so peaceful. New England terrain feels like home to me. I mean home in a kind of "here is where your soul is," kind of way.

Then we brought lunch back to my aunt and uncle's, and after that my sister and the kids left for the museum, and I hung out with my mom for a bit before getting the train back to the city, with my mom heading up to Middleton to spend the night at the Admiral and the Captain's new place.

This is a photo of the kids, my mom, and me, up on Bunker Hill:

Here's one with my sister:

This is on the Duck Boat:

And here are Charlie and Lilah on the red trail at Blue Hills: