Sipping/chugging a dark wheat lager brewed with winter spices after picking up tree limbs off my parents’ yard…

Could be watchin’ NASCAR motorised vehicles in a circular bang ’em up ballet.

Could be neighbourly, spreading the message that a Christiane Armed-n-poor led round/oblong table projected, or the message that the Pepsi CEO’s facial expressions/twitches implied.

Blue skies and breezy day call my name.

A rabbit eats dandelion blooms in the backyard while contemplating Richard Adams and Watership Down.

I can speedread text but not video. Dragging the progress bar or fastforwarding is not the same.

Sitting by myself in the church sanctuary, safe from UV rays and whatever else faces me in the great outdoors, I felt alone and helpless this morning, unable to sing hymns with my usual joyous man/boyish booming voice of enthusiasm because I didn’t have my wife there to entertain with octave changes and hold her hand during congregational prayers. I miss her deeply/dearly.

Going solo at my in-laws’ and wife’s hometown church on Palm Sunday, I had no role to fill except messenger, quickly completed.

And then I was invisible again.

The prism.

The funhouse mirror with no persons peering at me to see their distorted image reflected back for comic relief.

If I cannot or do not reflect, what am I?

What is a social being without a social connection?

Best line I heard, emanating from a dementia patient in a bathroom: “Oh my God! What is coming out of my butt?!”

I want to be that person one day, forgetting what a BM is and entertaining random passersby with insightful age/scatological humour.

What if I already am and don’t know it?

If so, would someone please let me know by magically turning on a lamp next to me in this instant?

Oh well, no magic lanterns and no voices in my head telling me what to do after I lose an argument with myself.

Stuck with sanity and reality one more day, it appears.

Thanks to Jeremy at Fatz; Lynda, Tina and Christina at Dollar Tree; the soldier walking into the west Kingsport Walmart; Pam and Casey at Baysmont/Asbury Place, if I haven’t thanked them already.

Would a sitcom based in a skilled nursing facility generate enough episodes for TV syndication? Or would an Internet video series find a profitable ausience…sorry, audience?

Brain is slipping. Best sign off before it falls. Adios.

Time to contemplate the role of a comic preacher-in-residence proselytising to patients in a nursing home with a mixture of dementia and physically frail archetypes aided by witty nurses, therapists and CNAs battling with budget-challenged administrative types.