Coffee on the deck, a highlight of this house, a reason not to sell in the summer ha ha.
Finished a major yard chore. I did something today!!
Now to enjoy my coffee. Yesterday I saw a butterfly! Maybe another today.
***
The daily routine hasn't been easy or enjoyable since H's heart attack. Not at all what I had in mind for old age. And I am not a very good care giver, actually, but do the best I can, which seems to be enough. But I think H is her own worst enemy and could do considerably more herself to help her situation. Maybe that's just the existentialist in me talking.
I have no idea when we'll have the house ready to sell. I seem to be doing the necessary work alone. I've done a very small drop in the bucket. Maybe by next summer. Hard to imagine getting it done sooner, working alone. I'm still trying to get H to clean her dressing room -- 7 months I've been trying!!!
But, as ma used to say, things definitely could be worse. What an old gem that is ... it could be worse. True, too.
But things also could be bettr.
***
Why do I keep writing here? It's a question I ask myself more often as I grow older. Every day I grow a week older.
I started this blog for several reasons: out of curiosity, to learn the technology; as something that might interest young writers, as I was interested in journals of other writers when I was beginning; as publicity for my work. The first has been realized. The others partially, I suppose.
But has this become pissing against the wind? Well, I don't feel like I'm soaked in my own urine, not yet. I keep going. If nothing else, I have interesting conversations with myself here. Maybe it delays mental deterioration for a while.
I still think of that retired writer living in the Daniel Boone Hotel, meeting young writers at the bar during happy hour. I expected such a fate. Ha ha ha.
Well, the good news is: I bake bread! I make biscuits! I make buttermilk! There are worse ways to wind up.
And, in fact, I'm writing again, which is a little remarkable. I wrote a bit this morning on the new CJ, and it feels good -- daring, different, complex, difficult to pull off, all things that will keep me from getting bored with myself, which a traditional narrative would do pretty quickly. That's the problem with having written so much -- most things, formally speaking, are old hand and, well, a tad boring to me. This one is a real challenge! I need that.
No title yet, though. Maybe the first crazy one is closest but I doubt if that will be it.
The gist of the story, although the story actually is not what the novel is mostly about, is that Danny White Bird has formed a new radical American Indian group, which has taken over the Whitman Mission outside of Walla Walla, and threatens to dig up the bones of Marcus and Narcissa Whitman unless a list of demands are met: Indian artifacts returned from museums, denigrading sports mascot names changed, etc. Danny White Bird will only negotiate with CJ after the FBI gets into the act ... so the FBI finds CJ.
What fun. (Miss you, Jimbo)
Finished a major yard chore. I did something today!!
Now to enjoy my coffee. Yesterday I saw a butterfly! Maybe another today.
***
The daily routine hasn't been easy or enjoyable since H's heart attack. Not at all what I had in mind for old age. And I am not a very good care giver, actually, but do the best I can, which seems to be enough. But I think H is her own worst enemy and could do considerably more herself to help her situation. Maybe that's just the existentialist in me talking.
I have no idea when we'll have the house ready to sell. I seem to be doing the necessary work alone. I've done a very small drop in the bucket. Maybe by next summer. Hard to imagine getting it done sooner, working alone. I'm still trying to get H to clean her dressing room -- 7 months I've been trying!!!
But, as ma used to say, things definitely could be worse. What an old gem that is ... it could be worse. True, too.
But things also could be bettr.
***
Why do I keep writing here? It's a question I ask myself more often as I grow older. Every day I grow a week older.
I started this blog for several reasons: out of curiosity, to learn the technology; as something that might interest young writers, as I was interested in journals of other writers when I was beginning; as publicity for my work. The first has been realized. The others partially, I suppose.
But has this become pissing against the wind? Well, I don't feel like I'm soaked in my own urine, not yet. I keep going. If nothing else, I have interesting conversations with myself here. Maybe it delays mental deterioration for a while.
I still think of that retired writer living in the Daniel Boone Hotel, meeting young writers at the bar during happy hour. I expected such a fate. Ha ha ha.
Well, the good news is: I bake bread! I make biscuits! I make buttermilk! There are worse ways to wind up.
And, in fact, I'm writing again, which is a little remarkable. I wrote a bit this morning on the new CJ, and it feels good -- daring, different, complex, difficult to pull off, all things that will keep me from getting bored with myself, which a traditional narrative would do pretty quickly. That's the problem with having written so much -- most things, formally speaking, are old hand and, well, a tad boring to me. This one is a real challenge! I need that.
No title yet, though. Maybe the first crazy one is closest but I doubt if that will be it.
The gist of the story, although the story actually is not what the novel is mostly about, is that Danny White Bird has formed a new radical American Indian group, which has taken over the Whitman Mission outside of Walla Walla, and threatens to dig up the bones of Marcus and Narcissa Whitman unless a list of demands are met: Indian artifacts returned from museums, denigrading sports mascot names changed, etc. Danny White Bird will only negotiate with CJ after the FBI gets into the act ... so the FBI finds CJ.
What fun. (Miss you, Jimbo)
