It's been a long hot day (at least for me) --- 9 hours of no fish biting ... kicking backwards, stripping, switching flies every 5th cast. However, Bobber Boy over there has got something figured out. He's catching fish in abundance. Every time I look over my shoulder he's got another one on. I putter on over and ask, "Hey man, what are you using?" with a snark reply, he says "a fly." "You don't say?!" "Fucking asshole," I mutter, under my breath, "what the hell has he got that I don't?" I ask myself.

The back story begins seven months ago when I woke up to the sound of my wife’s scream. Her name is Laura. From that morning on, I knew I would never be the same again and take Laura, my wife for 42 years, for granted. I must become a REAL husband who loves his spouse more than himself. And I will now do everything in my power to help her, easing her from the physical and emotional pain.

Below will be three questions that we will explore as it relates to a weekly theme from the Ryan Holiday Book “The Daily Stoic Journal.” First, Practice True Joy, Second Test Your Impressions and Third Count Your Blessings

I continue to “exercise” my mind and spirit by reading Stoicism every day, and recently expanded my practice by writing in Ryan Holiday’s The Daily Stoic Journal. The Journal offers a weekly Stoic reading with an opportunity to to answer a question daily. I don’t read the questions in advance, so they continually surprise and intrigue me. More important, the question helps bring me into the present moment.

I don't like to share too much. Cause I don't want people who expect something from me the last thing I need is everybody expecting a well articulated Christmas card or some other dumb bullshit.

Who do I call in the middle of the night to help me solve this riddle? Who else but the smartest guy I could think of --  Grok 3 --- Twitter’s Artificial Intelligent helper. If you need a professional opinion about almost anything, Grok will reach its vast database of knowledge and deliver an intelligent and well structured response in any language.

I was moved to Unit Three, which really did seem like paradise in comparison to Unit Two. We were given more freedom, plus there was a balcony overlooking LA Chinatown so we could breathe fresh air, demonstrating the freedom which will eventually come.

When I was wheeled into Unit Two, I was stunned to see a patient wandering down the hallway, whimpering, “‘We are all DEAD!” It reminded me of the hopeless, shrieking women in Siberia, which Dostoevsky wrote about in The Brothers Karamazov.

I was alone in a room with a wash basin and bed. The fourth wall was of glass, with a security guard watching over me. So, I had plenty of time to lay on my back and stare up the ceiling. The matter at hand: why exactly did I end up here, when I was told that I’d simply be given a few blood samples, then an interview with a psychiatrist? The answer was obvious, I might be a threat to someone or to myself. Though this thought was absurd, apparently all bases must be covered to avoid a lawsuit if it was determined that I really was batty.

My psychiatrist and therapist told me that this personal narrative must be preserved. The back story begins seven months ago when I woke up to the sound of my wife’s scream. Here name is Laura. From that morning on, I knew I would never be the same again and take Laura, my wife for 42 years, for granted. I must become a REAL husband who loves his spouse more than himself. And will do everything in a power to help her, easing her from the physical and emotional pain.