Rain falls on a Sunday afternoon and I sip coffee spiked with whiskey. It is that kind of afternoon.
I’m reading a dud from Hammett, a rare occurrence. I may switch over to Grapes of Wrath. I decided to read it again. Thirty five years between readings is a long time for a classic and I was nervous when I began because East of Eden did not hold up at all. But the first two chapters of Wrath astounded me and I was relieved and overjoyed. The book is about an American diaspora and I want to write about the new American diaspora because I am part of it.
I am thinking about a Kat. I am thinking about my dogs. I am thinking about finding a job, if I can find one.
Wind whips the hemlocks outside the coffee shop. A crow wants to land but can’t.
I have started yet another elk-themed piece of writing. There may be a mini-book in my collected elk writings.
Why is it the Elks and not Elk fraternal order? Elk has no plural!
Once I start writing about something, it always seems as if that subject begins appearing everywhere. Rain was like that. Dogs. Beavers. Now elk. I bet I will find an elk t-shirt soon.