October 1, 2021:

We stayed in a house in Piedmont.

To me it was enormous: the guest bedroom was as large as the apartment I lived in with my mother. I thought, This is how rich people live.

Forty-three years later I'm in a space three times as large.

I don't know why I deserve this, what I've contributed, why it's me who's here rather than someone else.

Of course, I actually do know. I fix the problems capitalists encounter which limit their profits. In return I'm rewarded with crumbs from their tables. That's a chatty, sociologistic explanation for the superficially obvious: I make lots of money. Which pays for all the space.

And yet I don't know. How does this relate to me? This is not my identity. It's just what I do, to afford the overly-large house I dislike. With the ultimate purpose of making the records I don't have time to work on, because I'm busy affording the jumbotronic house.