Passing The Time

There has been some apt suggestions in the posts lately that I'm wasting my time waiting for Agent 99. In previous years, I would have agreed and become antsy, but my new philosophical and Zen self thinks that things are how they are supposed to be. (Believe me I am plenty antsy, just not going to do anything about it.) Call it too much yoga. Call it a life of dysfunction and denial that has served me well. Besides, I have yet to have the experience where I actually have any control over these matters. Can I make her read it any faster? No. Can I pressure and be a dick about it? Sure, but I'm not much of a dick so that doesn't interest me. Can I send it elsewhere? Oh, please. What's the point? I finally found someone who loves this book, and if she's a little slow, so be it. Maybe that seems passive and lame, and maybe it is. I'm working on faith here, people. I've got to let it unravel on its own.  In the past, my attempts to hurry things along have been futile, frustrating, and sometimes detrimental to my own purpose. In other words, I only tend to fuck things up.  So, I'm sitting back and working on my paid work, and writing a memoir that tries to unravel the mystery about why I was disinherited. Interesting topic: Did you know that the U.S. is the only country where disinheriting a child is even possible--legally and morally. In most other cultures, it's considered a moral outrage. King Lear, anyone? So, that's what I've got on this Friday of Labor Day. I think I'll just wait it out and do whatever I need to do to get by. It's kind of like recovering from heartbreak: it doesn't really matter what you do to fill up the time, as long as the time passes.  That's the key to it.  Eventually, something else happens.