O Trazadone, Where Art Thou?

Photos posted stateside show autumn colors, football, sweaters, pumpkins. Here all is moist, green, bougainvillea-pink. My sense of detachment from the old reality is growing at an accelerated pace now. My sleeping pills ran out a week ago; the ensuing nights of torturous wakefulness may be clouding my perceptions, true, but still I have a sense that I am viewing the life I left behind through the wrong end of the telescope.

My addiction to news remains intact. Though I am persuaded that the NY Times  has morphed into The Onion of late. How else to explain the sheer incomprehensibility of the Republican party's crowded primary field, with barely a whole mind among them? How is it possible that Ben Carson has so little of substance to say about fuck-all ANYTHING? How may we explain the paucity both of Mr. Trump's vocabulary and his grasp of the realities of governance?

I've been prowling farmacias, looking for Trazadone without success. Erlinda called around in Managua. Nobody carries it. Now I drag through the days, catnapping; at night, I devour whole books waiting for morning. The Invention of Nature, by Andrea Wulf, is my current read. The astonishing account of Alexander von Humboldt's brilliant mind, his world travels in search of knowledge he freely offered to science and laymen alike. I dread finishing it.




I need sleep!

A bright note: brother Bobby is coming for a long weekend at month's end. We plan to make an excursion to Ometepe, a two-volcano island in Lake Nicaragua, in the Rivas department of the country.  And in two days, I will go up to Managua to see an exhibition of drawings by Salvador Dali with Ivan and Erlinda. 13 years ago, Gabriel and I saw a wonderful Dali exhibit in London, and then, in 2012, I visited the fine Dali museum in St. Petersburg, FL with my friend Tom Matrullo. I take my Dali wherever I can find him!

If only I could find Trazadone...