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I don't have my internet connected yet, so I pull out my trusty pen that glides along effortlessly as long as I'm thinking effortlessly. Without internet and since I don't own a television, I have no idea if Trump has stolen the election yet. 

We have never experienced a losing candidate for president, let alone a losing president attempt a political coup d'etat by manipulating the judicial system with the intent he can manufacture any kind of case that sticks to the wall where a six-three Supreme Court conservative majority--three of them his appointees--will reverse a Biden 306-232 electoral college victory and a seven million popular vote advantage and crown Trump democratic dictator for life. 

In terms of the Coronavirus that is surging throughout the country as never before, 255,000 Americans have died and 11.5 million have been diagnosed with COVID. Trump, like Pontius Pilate, has washed his hands of the pandemic. He seeks cover behind reports of an imminent vaccine that if successful won't reach most Americans until the spring or summer of next year. Meanwhile, we live on tenterhooks, wearing masks, social distancing and avoiding large crowds as best we can. 

There are a few deaths each day in Brownsville unlike other border cities El Paso and Laredo where the usual make-shift morgues are overflowing with bodies, so here in the Third World Capital of the United States we're letting down our guard. You hear as you socialize at bars and restaurants that only a minute number die from the virus and at worse it is a bad case of the flu and therapeutics have improved to the point that the malady can be resolved at home. 

And speaking of the old home, angry texts are being lobbed back and forth with Mick the number one victim from the collateral damage. I tell him that people fight and if words were bullets, there would be a bloodbath, but the exchanges, though marked by vicious insults during which incidents from the past are retold in excruciating and embellished detail for the 100th time, it's another soap opera rerun that will exhaust itself. Nothing may be the same again, but we reside in a world in which we pine for the nostalgic days that may never return again.

I slept well last night on my new inflatable mattress. The electricity kicked in about 5 p.m. I bought my card table with four chairs. This will be the extent of my furniture. My rooms will resemble the walls of a museum without the paintings. I went to HEB last night for breakfast food, but I also bought kitchen and bathroom necessities from a tea kettle to a shower curtain, but there are basics from a frying pan to a wastepaper basket, from blankets to a pillow, that are lacking, but these shortages will be resolved. 

The last couple of days have been mentally exhausting. Olivia chose that she would rather have the dogs in the house than me even though I thought I had been an overall plus. I'm discombobulated by her sympathies for a pair of mongrels rather than the man in her life, but in these sorry times when 74 million people voted for Trump, we shouldn't be surprised by anything. I may be alone, but I'm breathing slowly and deeply like a Zen monk. If I could combine a strenuous workout with an afternoon nap, I might be mentally prepared to drop into a joint for a bite to eat and a bottle of wine.

They say never marry a writer. I say never marry a painter. Can you imagine the depiction of the loved one during the first days of infatuation to the unflattering portraits of that former beauty after the relationship had gone south 20 years later?

Moving is never fun. Until you are finished, there are complications. I've rented a car and I drive to Estanislao's house to collect my five plastic containers. They hold the remnants of my life and will exist for anyone who is interested in an individual who once occupied this grain of sand in the universe before it was engulfed by a cosmic wave. These remembrances of things past will survive until a relative--most likely a son--will decide that there is no more space for this junk and dump it into the nearest trash bin.  

In my sparsely furnished apartment they can operate as book ends. I can put a small lamp on one of them next to my bed that will be more convenient than having to rise and turn off the room's light. It has been several years since I've rummaged through these boxes that I've regarded as a treasure trove although a critic might consider the contents as having less value than fool's gold. 

Dusty and covered with webs, I wipe them clean before Estanislao helps me load them into the car. They are as heavy as small boulders. Estanislao includes two blankets, a skillet and several glasses as second-hand parting contributions. Citing errands and running short of time, Estanislao doesn't volunteer to help me unload the boxes at the apartment. He does assure me that he will arrive later to set up my internet. 

Without a computer, this is a home without a hearth. I live on the second floor and I have to lug these containers up the stairs. My back indicates that it may not be up to the cause, but I have no other alternative. I don't see any spaced-out teenagers who might lend me a hand for $10. I thought about $5 initially, but Mick gives me a dubious look whenever I am pulling $5 out of my wallet as if that chump change were going to suffice. I do the heavy lifting by myself. I suppose I'll be doing most the heavy lifting by myself in the future.