How to tell a story

How to tell a story

Thursday, May 26, 2016


Still processing the shock that I'm older than I thought "on the road," and it ain't easy to pile up the miles. This doesn't mean I can't travel but it does limit my miles in a day, what with my back killing me. Harriet is worse than I am. So trips need to be realistic and a drive 3000 miles doesn't sound too realistic unless we took a month to do it ... which, of course, is possible.

Otherwise perfect here at the coast, a great room with a beautiful ocean view, but we're both a tad homesick ALREADY in the sense that we miss our homebound routine. Man, this is a surprise! Our energies are down enough to make the usual touristy exploration tiring, even a drag. Everything is different. And in a year, everything might be "older" than it is now, in fact it should be, likely will be. We ain't getting any younger.

So the adventure ahead, as planned, is more suitable for 70 than 80. I think maybe we blew it as far as road trips are concerned.

But that's not the end of the world. That just means find something more suitable. I can amuse myself doing nothing anywhere. It's Harriet I worry about.

So I will shrink the universe and focus on helping/urging/begging H to downsize, so we can put the house on the market in a year or later, whatever is appropriate. Many of my motivations for selling the house are now gone. Not hers, I suspect. In fact, if we see a community she likes, she may be ready to move into it as soon as we sell. I'll go with the flow.

I think Sketch definitely would like to be home. Routine!

Well. I am very very glad we did this because we surely learned things we need to know.


Leisurely drive home. I want to get in before rush hour traffic but, in fact, Pdx area traffic sucks around the day clock these days. The place has grown and keeps growing. I'd love to move but no way H will. If I outlive her, I'm gone ASAP.

H asleep, Sketch asleep, I'm at the window. That lovely constant ocean hum. Salt air. I've lived at the ocean in SoCal and could again.

I am surprised how deserted the beach is. But then, the kids are still in school and it's mid week. Good time to come.

Getting hungry. Wish folks would wake up. It's 9.

Some playwright chores when I get home, copies of new book should be there ... enter in a couple things, inscribe some books for special friends. I have some competitions to enter with the big three last plays, too. I'd really like to see a production of one before I pass. A long shot but possible. They are first rate. Which actually means nothing in the real world of theater politics and how things get done. Unless you find a director with a passion for a particular script. I've had that happen. Then nothing stops them.

Sooo ... my life ain't one day at a time, it's one hour at a time!
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