This isn't either

This isn’t a journal. But things happen. And I have to do something—click my fingers and sing, “Gotta move.” For example, its only December 20 and the snow is falling again—this time about seven inches by morning. There is a sense that I don’t mind being snowed in—again—but I don’t want to shovel anymore. And it is only just winter today. What I can expect for the next four months or so is not to be imagined.
     And the cats insist on following me about the house. In whatever chair I rest they are in attendance in my lap. Suddenly I am the cat’s best friend, even though two of them kept looking in my beer glass and seemed not at all put off by the aroma. Or they go tearing through the house as chasing each other as they might chase their own tales. And the old Tiger, no Spring chicken, so to speak, and veritably blind, collapses on my lap and begins to snore. I am too sympathetic to ask him to leave and find another chair.
     And the snow keeps falling.
     And I sometimes don’t know what to do with all of this feeling. And so I watch Without a Trace. I have seen not a few of the episodes, and Anthony LaPaglia—Jack—hasn’t smiled once. Even when he finds the person, he doesn’t crack a smile. And he walks around with the weight of the world on his shoulders. And watching him I always feel better—and after that I can tune into Criminal Minds—with either Mandy Patinkin or Joe Mategna, I don’t care­­—and allow the television to enact the horror of my psyche. Two episodes and I am whole again, and all is well.
     If I’m lucky, there will be next an episode of Seinfeld.
     Then, I can read and go to sleep. Mostly.