The flat dirty lowland--and I'm driving the bulldozer that destroyed the beautiful hills

Not only am I reclusive, but I'm back on the couch.

I spent most of the middle third of 2023, and large parts of 2022, affixed to my sofa in New York City.

Now it's in Truckee.  Different couch, but the magnetism and inertia combine and here I am, horizontal.  Ceci is worried and wants to go out but the door is too far away.  If she wanders I won't be able to chase her.

A hummingbird came into the house last night...three hours before it exhausted itself and settle to the floor in my living room, its wings spread like its own wrapping.  Ceci walked up to it and turned to me with big eyes, as if to say "David, this beautiful thing is in trouble.  Can we do something to help?"

I wrapped the tired bird in a dishtowel.  It didn't struggle or move.  Once outside on the dark driveway, I opened the cloth and the hummingbird launched straight away, flying directly toward the quarter moon.  I hope it returns to enliven my flowers.

Sitting up is a big effort…I don't feel like talking and why should I, since Ceci is my only audience and she understands me without words. 

I can't call for help.  I can't think of anyone to call. 

I'm reading a book when I wake up but it's depressing too…I'll switch to a Nick Hornby book I bought which is more intellectual and includes appreciated humor.  Self-deprecation in the presence of others he honors. Hornby writes with humility that shows the type of strength I once possessed, and can't find at the moment.  

I possess nothing now.  Just my body, and it wants to stop moving forever.

Some of this soul-wrenching torpor is likely self-inflicted.  I'm having very harsh dips from any chemicals, and yesterday I had two shots of vodka, a glass of wine, and I micro dosed LSD.  Leftovers from my psychedelic therapies and old habits.

I apologize to myself for this weak behavior.  Every one says a few hours of happiness result in a day or more of depression, and in my case that truism feels gentle.  I absolutely can't drink anymore, and the microdosing, in my case at least, is poisonous.  The addicted part of my behavior last night is driven by my feeling that I can't remember the last time I felt good.  Give me half an hour...I'll pay the price!

That's how my damaged brain works.

My cat is on the front porch, protecting our house while I can't.