Well, here I am, writing a blog. It’s been several days since my last blog – the days slip by you so quickly, even more so the older you get. And here I am, 64 years young and some days I feel every bit of it. So, while I am trying to think great thoughts, I find myself overwhelmed by life. Two grandbabies on the way. The attic fan warning buzzer going off. Dealing with the upspring of Spring, and its accompanying outburst odf dandelions and cockleburs all over my plush green lawn. Mowing that plush green lawn. Walt White’s ultimate fate on Breaking Bad.
Meanwhile, I write. Mostly, these days, I wrote poems. The trouble with poems is that the poet never knows how many, if any at all, will read his work. Still, he (or she, but in this case, me – or is it I) trudges forth, antiquated XP on lap (as opposed to pen in hand). Right now I am working on one of the most important projects I have ever undertaken, and yet I am terrified that no one will ever realize it.
I love where I live: I have as much writing time as I allow myself. It is a well known axiom that writers will do everything they can to avoid writing, even when they have no excuse. Up here, I have no excuse. Not even Breaking Bad, which is done now, or Farscape, which, done or not, will live forever and for ever re-watching. There is only one drawback to being here and having the free time: my friends and family (which are the same thing) are all too far away. The one excuse I willingly take to set aside all my work is visiting. Here or there, it does not matter. and even then, my pocket sized notebook is always handy, so excuse me if the Muse strikes over an espresso and scones at Glacier Perks.
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