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I dreamt last night that I was at a Mexican resort--Acapulco or Cancún--with my two oldest sons Dante and Diego. I remember the water and the palms and walking to our rooms. We left our suitcases and departed for different destinations. I was with a group of men and women when I started wondering about my sons. I went back to the room and the suitcases were gone. I pulled out my cell, but I couldn't get clear reception. It was similar in its frustration to when someone is chasing you in a nightmare and you can't run. I was beginning to wake up when the last fading image was a policeman telling me that there were two fresh bodies at the morgue. Our dreams prepare us as much as possible for when the shit really hits the wall.

Olivia haunts my dreams on a regular basis. A week doesn't pass they she doesn't invade my sub-conscious. She appears in the company of another man. Talk about twisting the knife until it's buried to the hilt. We didn't live together for seven years. Those soporific episodes were painful. Sometimes I would know her companion and sometimes I wouldn't, but it was her complete disregard for me that drove me to the edge. I would awake from those scenes and simmer about her possible reality. Ironically, she persists in my dreams in similar circumstances and I'm filled with the same anger, but I awake and she is next to me. I have never had this experience with anyone else. No person affected me emotionally as much as she did and I assume these are the collateral effects of an intense relationship.

Dreams are a kaleidoscope of one's reality although they choose to reveal themselves in an amorphous pattern that oftentimes defies logic. In order to comprehend them, it's as impossible as picking through digested food and determining the different dishes of your previous meal. Sometimes, I am successful at deducing the source that gave rise to the nightmare. In the nightmare involving my two sons, I read yesterday that the medical authorities are predicting that by the end of the year 3000 Americans will die each day from COVID. With more than 203,000 dead, we are averaging 1000 a day. The nightmare dissipates once I turn on the lights or the first rays of the sun start poking through the windows. After dealing with Olivia's initial shock, the impact diminishes although in her case there is a lingering haze that hovers in the thin air.

But the nightmares and Olivia fade. They are the fictitious figments of my creative mind. COVID doesn't; COVID is real. It peaked about six weeks ago in Brownsville. I haven't heard of a death or a sickness that affects me personally with the exception of Estanislao Contreras informing me that his cousin in Monterrey--a four-hour drive from Brownsville--had passed. If that is the extent of the illness' gravity, I can live with its preying presence; the odds are 99 to 1 that it's not going to affect me. But I know it can strike at any moment. Cases are climbing in 21 states, including Texas. I have cautiously expanded by social contacts, which isn't a wise course of action. There is the added complication of the multiplying factor as Olivia and Mick expand their contacts and my stepchildren Karina and Lorca have been visiting us from San Antonio.

It is not uncommon for me to have headaches, coughs and sore throats. Because of the 3000 death scare, I was feeling vulnerable, but I rose at three--Mick was on his phone with his first distant-learning class scheduled at nine--and took a swing of cough syrup, washed back two Excedrin with a glass of orange juice and sucked on a cough drop. Except for the lassitude that I feel in the morning, which precludes any exercising since I feel stronger and more energetic in the afternoon, I am predicting that I am not going to die today. We have a special treat awaiting us denizens of South Texas. The first substantial norther of the year rolls through in the early afternoon and temperatures will drop from the highs and lows of 90 and 75 to 80 and 60. It won't be long before the snowbirds arrive since our winters are eternal springs. It will be nice walking in the crisp, dry air again. I can't say I suffered this summer as I hibernated in air-conditioning. My days of hot weather have ended although the damage the sun inflicted on my skin is another worry that I have added to my long list of preoccupations. 

But I am off to a good start this Monday morning. I am finishing this first piece and it's not even nine. I'm listening to Debussy and he has filled my mind with Impressionistic scenes from Paris and the French countryside. I'm confident it will be a productive writing day, but before I return to the computer, I'm preparing coffee to accompany my bacon-and-egg breakfast. I'll return to the writing and accompanying music with occasional jaunts outside to greet the norther's arrival. I'm feeling my strength, so I'll hit the weights while I listen to the French language tapes. In the late afternoon, after I have finished another session of writing, I'll play the guitar, read and take a nap. There will be lunch and dinner some time during the day, but I'm not on a strict schedule. There is an excellent Monday night football game that I'll watch with Mick. I'll test Olivia's commitment to our relationship by requesting that she bring me a glass of wine with a plate of salami, cheese and crackers. I don't want to spoil her.

I am into the fourth month of my fourth year of retirement. My economic situation is solid and Coronavirus hasn't ambushed me. Many retirees die after a year or two of leaving work. The boredom and lack of purpose kill them, but I'm booked solid. There are two contests that are personal challenges: How long will I live and how many years will I survive after retirement? In the latter case I hope to collect my money's worth.