Category Archives: Writing

In Colorado

The job in Colorado was a news job. But it wasn’t real news. And it wasn’t a real job. Okay, it was and wasn’t.

The job was part-time. And the part-time I worked was mostly doing unethical coping of news from other sources. The publisher liked to make jokes about the news. So, the biggest and worst part of my job was doing news clips. He would send a list of links to the editor. Along with the list were funny headlines. The paper paid for AP news, so I was supposed to look for an AP source. But often I couldn’t find one. In which case, I cheated. I would copy most of the story and put in limited attribution. In my mind this is plagiarism. But no one cared what I thought.

And for the most part he was not really funny. When there was a long traffic jam in China. His headline compared it to local traffic. The freeway from Denver was often jammed. But I was also a reporter. And in this role I wrote about the traffic.

The reporter job was freelance. I was paid by the word. I covered mostly the small towns in the valley. This is the same area where Kobe Bryant was put on trial. But I moved to the valley a few years after. The news I did cover was county government. I also did a couple stories about local schools. And a range of people stories. From art to new businesses it was all in the mix.

While covering the county I got a tour of the local jail. It was an interesting experience. I have never been, and hope to never spent a night in jail. It reminded me in some ways like a hospital. Like a hospital, you are monitored. But it is harder to get out. The county commissioners were being given a tour. And I asked if I could join them: they agreed.

The road stories were also fun. And they were fun in way most people might not find fun. It was a lot of reading of reports. I had to catch up on different ideas. After reading and talking to a few experts one person mistook me for a local. It was an infrastructure story. There were a number of ideas on how to solve traffic. One idea was light rail. Then there was the idea of a bus service. The last main idea was more road space. A couple plans mixed ideas from these three. Most people seemed to agree a mix was needed. They agreed more freeway wasn’t a enough of a plan.

When not working I spent a lot of time outside. This is Colorado. I would drive for hours along dirt roads. Then sometimes I would hike for hours. There was a large mountain by my house. One of the first things I did was climb to the top and look around. I miss the mountains still. Nature is so grand and amazing.

But one night I got in trouble. I drove and parked. Then followed a path and a dirt road. I had looked at the map. And I had a plan. But it was taking me longer than I had projected. And it was getting dark. I called 911 and told them I was lost. Stay where you are, but they didn’t know where I was when I called. On the map the road was mislabled. I didn’t know this until later. And my phone was dying. So I kept walking. Through the dark and chilly night. I found a house with an open garage eventually. I walked up and asked for help. I told them the story and they called the Sheriff. Who came out and gave me a ride back to my car. It was a bit embarrassing.

While in Colorado I saw my family in New York. It was the death of my dad’s sister. Yes, I know, but I never really knew her enough to have a relationship. So I refer to his relationship. My dad paid for me to fly out of the Denver Airport (which is halfway to New York anyway). It was a good short trip. And it was a chance to connect with family I hadn’t seen in years. Family which wasn’t really family in my mind.

While in Colorado I lived in the town of Gypsum. This was the low end of the valley. Vail was at the high end. There were a number of towns in between. One of which was Eagle, where Bryant was in court. The town – or area – I worked was Edwards. My roommate was an older woman. She was a nutty person.

Well, she was still using AOL dialup. She watch The Notebook everyday. I’ve never sat down and watched it from start to end. But I have seen the whole movie. I saw it at her house just as I would pass through. Or linger to chat with her.

I found the place through Craig’s List. And I am grateful for her renting to me. She had a cat of her own. And her cat was not friendly to mine. Later she also got a small dog. She was a good person. And looking back I don’t think I was an easy roommate. But she was patient and always friendly. While I was away in New York she took care of Baby Girl for me.

There were a number of problems. The drive to work was almost 30 miles. It was a beautiful drive. But a long drive. Also, the money I was making wasn’t enough. I was working part-time and freelance. But my pay was $10 an hour. And the freelance wasn’t much money. I was barely making it, and barely eating. I knew I had to get out.

But I am glad to have lived in Colorado. I never regret anything in my life. Because all these moments have made me rich. And maybe if this book sells well, I will be cash-rich. I left Colorado when I found a job in Nebraska. I put Baby Girl and all my stuff in the car and headed east. Of course, I still had things in storage I hadn’t been able to retrieve.

After I left Colorado the paper went under. It was a free paper and the money wasn’t coming in for ads. My editor now works for the other town newspaper. He is still a good friend.

Lord Jim

I feel a bit like Lord Jim today. As I write the sentence I think to myself. I feel like Lord Jim on most days.
Sometimes it is the young Lord Jim. Ready to face the world of adventure. Ready to go out and live the life he has been reading about for years. There is so much life to live inside of me on these days. And these moments feel like the start of something great. It is out there for me to go and get.
Then there are the days I feel like Lord Jim on the run. Life has been rough. I’ve made mistakes. The adventure didn’t measure up and neither did I. I wasn’t the grand hero. I wasn’t the dashing knight. Only a scared little boy, who ran from my own shadow. When the time came for greatness I ran from it. And I run still from this great choice in my past. But I can’t run away.
And then there is the times I feel like Lord Jim at the end. I have found something I believe in. A thing I believe is worth holding on to in this world. I could die for it. But more importantly I live for it every day. I put everything I am into it because I can’t run anymore. And I will never find a home like these moments.
On the hardest days I feel like Lord Jim on his last day. I’ve made a grave error. A sin which much be atoned. I will die for what I have done. Or at least suffer the loss of all I have made. I know the mistake is real. And the sin is mine to own. And the death will be just.
And which Lord Jim do I feel like today. The tired one who can’t seem to stop running. The past trails along behind like a string. I run and I run and I run away. And unlike Lord Jim I don’t even know what I am running from. There is always another port, another life, another story. The next one is always so tempting. The next one is always so tempting. The winds feel like traveling weather today. If I could find a ship going out to sea I might sail away. But, the moment isn’t an escape.

America’s Problem

So, thinking about recent events it is clear to me America has a problem.
What isn’t clear to me is the nature of the problem being what many think. I don’t believe America’s problem is racism: though there is an racist element. I don’t believe it is sexism: though again there is a sexist element. At the root of all our problems is a single issue. An addiction almost.
America has a problem with violence. It seems to be the first and easiest form of expression for too many people. The first and easiest solution to most conflicts. And yes for many an addiction.
Americans take in a massive amount of violence by choice. This comes in the choice of violent movies and video games.If we want to move beyond the crisis of the present we need to think about critical choices we make. I’m not suggesting government action: I’m suggesting a change of cultural heart and priority. If we fill our hearts and minds with violence, fear, hatred and destruction. Our hearts, minds and souls will be filled with chaos, violence and fear. This can only result in violent and destructive choices.
If we want to move out of the darkness, we need love. It is one thing to sit back and say “I choose love.” But the daily choices we make are the foundation. We need to fill our minds with energies of love. Fill our hearts with energy of love. If we cannot bring peace to our own souls. We cannot bring peace to our world. If we want to bring peace to our souls. We need to dwell in peace.
Think about the choices you make every moment. While you drive in traffic. While you wait in line at the store. While you are alone with yourself. Are you making choices of love? Making choices which promote peace? Or are you making violent negative choices. Are you creating emotionally positive or negative energy?
Remember only love is real. If you are focused on anything else you are thinking about a lie. And only the truth can set you free.

Ramblings

You start with nothing. Write nothing. And it is all born.
What can I tell you about living my life. I wake up too early. Sleep too much. Eat too little and work.

This morning the air was cool and fresh. The light filling the sky. Morning comes on slow. My life is slow. I feel like I am going no where. Stuck in traffic. Asleep at the wheel. I sat for an hour on the freeway in traffic. But is this my life. Is this really my life?

I nap when it is hot. And then I nap when it is cold. When I’m not at work. I nap. The cat soft against me, or resting on my lap. Netflix playing to an empty room. How many times have I had to revisit scenes missed as I napped. The only time I don’t sleep enough is at night. Can there ever be too much napping in this world?

When I spend too much time at work. I’m not sure what to do when I am at home. I’m not reading a book. Or writing. So I take a nap. What a failure. Anyone can nap their lives away. Maybe I should go to the gym. Maybe I should go to the store. I’ve thought about the girl at the gas station every day. And I am no closer to going back. The car wash was bad. I can’t pretend to buy something as reason to see her again.

I’m not getting my job done at work. At maybe this will change as people are hired. But I feel like I should be doing more. And doing it faster. I can’t get it done on time. And I wonder if this is the right choice for me. Or I am the right choice for this. Next week will be better. The sun will come out tomorrow.

Just another word

The truth is simple. Pure and simple. Beyond a doubt every story is true. And it is all a philosophy and a biography. Even lies hold a truth. If you look. Even this paragraph is true.

She wrote about the rain in Spain. And it was a truth he wanted to avoid. But he couldn’t in the end. He couldn’t turn back the clock. Take the pages out of the book. Unlive the days he lived with her. Who is this story about? Every author writes about themselves.

When we write we put ourselves on the page. The word becomes a mirror. Because our words make us who we are, and we make our words. We couldn’t create with anything but our own blood. They once had a child. It wasn’t born. But it was real. It had its own blood and body for a time. Where would this child be today?

Imagine there’s no heaven. No Krishna or Rama. Think about no wars and no love or imagination. But you can never think of a world without words. Because what would be your tools of thought. Before the written word was the spoken word. And before the speech was thought, in words. There has been light in the dark since there was dark in the world. And since we had brains to think. We had words to think.

She once told him a story, a sad story. She was drunk in the front yard. Yelling and broken over a boy. The night it all ended he had run for miles. Tired and feeling broken as the words became real he rested. And she rested in his arms. How could this be real?

A writers world view is always the real point of the story. What does the writer value. And what does the writer believe to be right and wrong. The frame work of the plot. The carefully chosen words of each person are the outlines of truth. Even when a writer tries to lie to readers. Or a writer tries to lie to themselves. There can be no lie about the truth. And the truth can never be lost.

Hey, that’s my lighter. She had been caught this time. The lighter gone missing when she came to visit. But it could have gone before, and it could be anywhere. But it wasn’t. Where it was found was in her mother’s purse. But where would he find his heart again. The carefully selected words he gave her so many years. The moments which will never come back to him. Those miles they traced across each others’ bodies. She was amazing.

Now this author wonders what he is trying to tell the reader. And what he is trying to tell himself. What is his truth as he sits here with his cat. The warm air outside fills with the sound of traffic. Then lulls back to a silence. Ten minutes until tomorrow and two days until vacation. He needs sleep and he needs rest. But in these moments he also needs love.

It isn’t the girl at the gas station. Though she is a cute girl. Not the friends at the gym. They are good friends. The last girl in California. Or the first girl lost to time but not memory. Out there people believe they love him, and he believes he loves others. But in here it is just himself and his cat. The air is cooling outside. But the air isn’t moving around enough to cool inside.

One lone night we spent hunkered in the rain. Squeezed into an old truck. And we spent a night in the cold, no blankets on the bare Ohio ground. The bare truth is boring. And no one wants to read the bare ┬átruth. People tell each other stories to tell each other truth. A deep feeling they don’t know how to express. And a deep feeling they don’t know how to hear. A caterpillar has to learn to be a butterfly. Angels learn how to be men and women. The cute one of the gas station is still much more of an angel.

Was it raining?

Was it raining?

The air was moist. Like the colour grey. Like darkness. And there was a chill. You could feel the chill in your bones. And across the waves she was there alone on the dock.

Was it raining.

A darkness was moving across the sky. The day was ending. The world was ending. Some place, some where, out in the world someone was being born. The dawn was breaking in another land. But tonight the world was ending on a small ferry. Tonight was the end. The end.

Was it raining?

It had been a week together. Days of bliss. Moments of outrage. She raged about not having a cigarette. They talked and she cried about being a part. He believed for a moment. But the moment was over. The moment was falling into the waves. And the waves were spreading between them now.

Was it raining?

He was crying. A heart beating in his chest. One beat at a time and he could hear it. He wanted to be out in the weather to see her. But, it was cold. He was cold and alone. Inside he couldn’t see the lost face. Just her face in his heart. The sounds of the water sloshed against the boat. The sounds of blood pumping through his veins. It would go on and on and on. The waves and the beats go with him for years.

But was it raining?

There were years of memories. A long travel to the edge of the country. Then back again. A cold night together in the front of a pickup truck. As the rain pounded all around. Cold and alone and with nothing on the East Coast. The life they shared went on past the final moment. He couldn’t let go just because she let go. And he didn’t.

He recalls the waves. And the cold. The ferry and the final smile. Why doesn’t he know if it was raining? Why does it matter? It does.

Summer Snow

Snow doesn’t fall in the summer. It just doesn’t snow in the summer. Well not here. Not on the flat plains. So many broad miles across the empty land and sky. And there isn’t any snow in the summer. If you don’t know the truth of much in life. The mystery of life after death. Or even worse, death after life. Do gravitons exist? Do we exist? Ponder those as you will. But don’t ponder the snow falling on North Platte in the winter. Just don’t.

There wasn’t much of a movement in the air. Mountains of clouds hung low on the landscape. The miles and miles of fluffy white going off into the distance. You couldn’t even see the end. Or the start. But the sun was pounding down like an tyrant. An oppressive presence you just couldn’t see to escape. Walking around in the heat of the day was dangerous. You feel like a melting snowball next to the fire. And no, there are no snowballs in summer. But there are campfire.

The sunset starts as a bright line low over the hills. In Nebraska this means a flat line. The corn waves from left to right. Like a crowd cheering the setting sun. Thanking the sun for the heat. Or thanking the sun for the break from the heat. Night will fall soon. And people will sit on the porch and watch the day end. Watch the rolling spirits across the tops of the grain. The land itself is alive. The air is alive. You are alive.

Next to his chair was lemonade. Out in the front yard the sprinklers were watering the yard. Water piped from a river of melting snow. It spreads across the plains like a mess. Without much form, a shallow channel. But it is born in the peaks. Where the banks of snow save water for the summer. If you want to know the real miracle of life it is the miracle of snow. And life is a miracle.

How could one not look up at the sky tonight. As the colour darkens from one side to the other. Alone just you and the stars. There may be new worlds and unknown beings out there, looking down. But for them it would still be looking up. And we would be looking down. Sipping on the lemonade, he waited. Life was more about waiting these days then ever before. Waiting and waiting. But what was this wait all about. How many of those stars are dead?

He missed the snow. When he was younger he would drive up to the mountains. Camp in the canyons above Boulder. Just a thin tent and his cat. The fresh air around him made him feel fresh. He learned to sleep under the skies full of stars. And to this day he can’t get to sleep without their light. The lemonade half empty now. One lone ice cube fading into the mix.

The house lights weren’t on yet. He sat alone on the back porch. Where he couldn’t see the driveway. Down the dusty miles of road you could see during the day. And when family would visit you could trace their lights for minutes. But the road hasn’t been dusty in a while. And he moved to the back porch to view the only lights he could see. It was the driveway which took her away one night.

When the sun sets in the west temperatures start to drop. And they drop fast. Pulling a small blanket around his shoulders he tried not to think back. He stared at the stars, at the clouds. He heard a cow off in the distance. The last of the bird song winding down. A loose board in the barn creaking in the wind. The last drop of lemonade was as good as the first. It was doing its job. There was a warmth in the blanket. He could think about her name. But just her name.

He wanted to see the snow before he died. The ambulance almost got stuck in the snow on the way. But there wasn’t a rush. And as it drove down the bumpy road. Just the two red lights up and down the hills. It was all he had left of her. All he had left of himself. And the kids called. Then the kids didn’t call. It was just him now. He’d heard gravity was weak. It was so easy to overpower. A flea could do it. A cat could do it. But right now he couldn’t, because his heart was heavy. Would they ever find the graviton? This mystery at the heart of the world. The one thing which binds us all.

When he looked to the right he could see Venus. Tonight he could see Mars. He had learned about the sky as a child. Had dreams like many small boys do of going to the stars. But those dreams had to wait for life. Because life isn’t about dreams. Living in a small town with a teenage wife means life is basic. You fill the tank. You fill their stomachs. You put your dreams on paper. Hold them in your heart. Sit alone under the vault of heaven as you age with them. Because your dreams of the stars. Are no closer than the stars themselves.

As the night passed he slept and woke. Slept and woke. But stayed where with his dreams. He couldn’t tell when he was dreaming and when he was awake. But he couldn’t let go. Couldn’t get up and go inside tonight. He had wasted so much of the last six months in bed. At last he knew bed wasn’t where they would find him. A small farm cat slept on his lap.

Was he dreaming? He had forgotten his name and hoped it wasn’t real. But then it started to snow. Across the hills to the east a sunrise was breaking. Deep gusts of snow started to blow. The cat curled tighter in his lap. It was the same cat he had as a child. He loved the cat so much. A voice called him inside. But he loved the morning. The air was alive. It was the start of something new. And this meant the end of something old. He wanted the snow to be real. If this was a dream let it last forever. Inside the voice called him out of the cold air. It was his wife. This couldn’t be real.

His chair rocked just a bit when the dogs came. They were looking for breakfast. On the ground was a glass which smelled of lemonade and almonds. They waited by his still body as the day warmed. There was a calm in the air. And the dogs wondered if they smelled snow. But even the dogs know it doesn’t snow in the summer.

A short vision exercise

This is set a few years down the road. I included some of my friends too.

======================

The sun slips through the rain clouds. Spring smells drift through the downtown air. Dante rolls over to hit the snooze button. Sure, he might be late. But people are used to him being late on his day off. Baby Girl stirred as he rose and went to sleep in the window.

In the other room She is reading her novel. A cup of warm tea waiting for him on the table. She had an hour before leaving for work. When Dante’s sleepy brain remembers this fact he rolls out of bed and into some clothes.

“Good morning,” he greets Her.

“How was work last night,” She asks him as he picks up the green tea.

“Thank you for the tea,” he tries to wake up. But gratitude is always the most important thing. As he sips he explains the previous day at the store. Being an assistant manager isn’t as easy as some made it appear. There are a lot of problems people could solve themselves. People who try to do too much, and people who try to do too little. But last night was a good night. The store was busy, but he had a good team.

With a kiss She popped out of her chair. Well time for work. Dante motioned to the fridge. “You see your lunch?”

“Aww, lunch, thank you,” She gushed. Clearly also understanding the value of appreciation. “What are your plans for today?”

“Well it is my hiking day,” Dante said. “Me and Rhonda are going to hike Mount Hamilton. It has been a couple weeks since I’ve been to the summit. One of the best views in the area.”

“And how is Rhonda doing at her new store,” She asked.

The move for Rhonda was a good one, it got her closer to her home. And it put her into a department manager position. Dante explained how she was enjoying her new store and co-workers. But the move was also triggered by his own promotion, to avoid any appearance of favoritism.

“Are we still on for the art show later this week,” She asked getting dressed. He couldn’t help but sneak a peek. She was amazing, a breath taking image he hardly believed to be real on some days.

“Yes, and she’ll bring the kids too. I think Michelle will also be going: it is going to be a fun night,” Dante told Her.

“I’m glad your friends are going to be there to support your art,” She said. “I know it means a lot to you, and so do they.”

“Kara said she would try and make it along, but since I got the night off she might have to close,” Dante explained. Kara still worked in the same store with him. She was also an assistant manager now. It has been fun he would think to himself to grow at Walmart with his friends. Even if for some of them the growth took them to other stores.

On the table his phone buzzed. It was Rhonda messaging him to see how late he would be today. They had planned to meet at Fisher’s Landing. It was an easy drive for her from Ridgefield. Her new house was just down the street from where Bobby used to live. Of course Bobby was now a department manager in Longview.

Quickly he finished his tea. Then gave Her a hug on her way out the door. Getting dressed, he sent a reply saying he was almost ready. Since he was driving against traffic he imagined it would be a smooth ride. Of course driving was easier in his new car. The Hyundai Tucson was a good car.

The car had been his first purchase with the money from his book deal. Some days he still didn’t know how he ever found the time to write the novel of his life. But he wondered more about the courage. Where did he find enough to have it published. Was it really such an interesting life. A publisher picked it up, and sales have been good. Not A Million Little Pieces good. But he also wouldn’t have to go on Oprah and explain why he lied.

His next novel was due out next year. Still in the writing process, it would be tales of travel. Something like On The Road, but not as boring. There had been many tales left out of his first book. The girls in Burlington and the pizza too. There were so many friends on his path. When he did a reading at Powell’s for his first book people asked about the next book. It felt good to be read. For so long he felt like his words were just there. And now his words had a new life. And his life has new meaning. His publisher suggested a third book based on his short life as a journalist.

But now he had gotten lost in thought and was going to be even later. Lets get moving he snapped to himself and picked up his keys. The Planet Fitness membership card struck the door as he locked up.

Baby Girl

Baby Girl was one of her cats. And I didn’t think I could love her. And not love her cats. The other cats were Frank, Tazman and Francesca. Baby Girl had actually been left with her by a friend. And the friend was never able to return. When I was a small boy I had a pet cat. One of the only pets I really loved. I remember moving and fearing losing Smoky. I would call for what felt like hours, in hopes he would come back. He always did. In the Fifth Grade he disappeared. I don’t know why or how.
So getting to know her cats was easy. I like cats. I am much more of a cat person than a dog person. They were easy cats to love. At times I spent the night at her house they would sleep on the bed with me. I watched her house, and the cats, while she was out of town. Often they would all be on the bed. I recall one night waking up in the middle of the night. I couldn’t breathe. Then I open my mouth and it is full of cat hair. Frank was sleeping right on my neck. Was he trying to kill me? I doubt it, she said he did the same to her.

I think Baby Girl liked my more than the rest. Frank had a strong bond with her. She had gotten him as a kitten and raised him. Baby Girl and Frank always got along. Except once when she had been gone for a long time. Frank went after Baby Girl a little, just to mark his human. Francesca was always the wanderer. She would hunt mice and birds. It wasn’t uncommon to find their remains in various parts of the house. Baby Girl was a mellow, mostly indoor cat. She could go outside like the others. But spent most of her time on the couch. When I was there she spent most of her time with me.

The first time she caught a mouse I was shocked. To be honest I don’t know what happened outside. I know she came in and was meowing at me in a strange tone. She is normally a quiet kitty. So I look over and see she has a mouse. It is still alive in her mouth. When Frank comes in she lets the mouse go and he starts to play with it. Baby Girl stays back and respects Frank as the boss. They chase the mouse around the house. I follow to watch and keep it out of Her bedroom. After a short time Frank gets bored and his attention drifts. Then Baby Girl killed it and ate it.

I wasn’t sure if she had really caught the mouse. And I am still not sure. It was Francesca who was the hunter. One time we found Francesca with a dead humming bird. Another time I had just pulled into the driveway. Both Baby Girl and Francesca were circling a small tree in the yard. Then I see they have something cornered. I think it was a mole. I’d just gotten off work so I went into the house. In a little while Baby Girl comes in with the mole in her mouth. She drops it in the middle of the living room and eats half. The other half sits for a while. At some point I am too grossed out to leave it. I pick it up and throw it away.

But then Francesca comes into the house. There was a cat door going out to the garage. This is how the cats got in and out. Francesca came through the cat door and went to the spot where the mole had been. She smells around. You can tell she is looking for the mole. After a minute Baby Girl starts through the cat door. Francesca looks at her, and Baby Girl sees Francesca. In a moment Francesca dashes toward her and Baby Girl has taken flight. I get the feeling Baby Girl may have stolen her prey.

While I was at the house Taz died. She had been old and unhealthy. We had a small service for her in the backyard. Frank came out with us and sat next to the small grave. It is hard to know if cats are aware. But I think they know when a friend has gone. Taz and Baby Girl used to be close. They would sleep together and Baby Girl would groom Taz. But Baby Girl wouldn’t leave the house. She stood by a window inside and watched.

When it came time for us to move my friend wasn’t able to take Baby Girl. “You take her,” she suggested, “she likes you.” And it was a good idea. Sure I started to love the cats as a way of loving my friend. But Baby Girl had won my heart. She has always been a sweet and gentle cat. Of course taking her meant I needed supplies. One of the luckiest things I found was a litter box. Yeah, you can get a litter box at any store. But this one is special. I got it from a thrift store which supported the animal shelter. It looks like a plastic igloo. It is large for a litter box and round. I knew it was perfect for Baby Girl because it was covered.

At my friends the litter boxes were in the garage. And Baby Girl has always been a modest kitty. If you walked into the garage while she was using the box, she would run outside. I knew she would like having the privacy of a covered box. What I hadn’t thought about was how much a cover would keep litter inside. When she digs, she really digs deep sometimes and roughly. My friend thought Baby Girl was going outside her box. But this has never been the case since she has been with me. The boxes in the garage weren’t covered. There were piles of litter with some droppings outside the box. These show Baby Girl is a very neat cat. And the litter was no doubt thrown out of the box while she was digging. Frank on the other hand once used the liter box while I was talking to someone right next to it.

Years ago I read a book of odd poetry. It was written by a woman, and some were for a man. The message of a couple amounted to, my dog still loves you but I don’t. In a way I felt like if I loved Her cats and they love me – so would She. But it didn’t work. But I am happy to have found Baby Girl. She has been a good friend to me the years we have been together. And I fear the day I will lose her. I have no reason to believe it will be soon. She still likes to sleep on the bed with me, and keep me company during the day.

The Mythical Tomorrow

In the Mythical Tomorrow.

I’ll write from the heart for hours, in the Mythical Tomorrow. Pages and pages, I will write my novel.

In this Mythical Tomorrow I will read from several books. The books I love, and the books I’ve always wanted to read.

I will have more time in this Mythical Tomorrow.

And I’ll have more energy in this Mythical Tomorrow.

All the things I didn’t get done today. Will get done on this Mythical Tomorrow. I’ll fall in love and write and read and dream.

I’ll be me this Mythical Tomorrow. But I don’t have time today.