A large man sat down next to me at the bar with a view of a river. He ordered eggs Benedict, a steak, chicken strips, mashed potatoes and a salad. He wanted everything slathered in ranch dressing. This was all for himself.
I built a fort today.
I finished writing my Oregon City memoir this morning. It was one of the more enjoyable writing projects of my life and I hope it finds an audience.
I’m pounding this out on my Alphasmart and the bartender just asked me about it.
I near the end of reading Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. It’s been 30+ years since the last reading. I’m into it. I keep wondering if Tolstoy knew that privileged, upper class, delusional life of the Russian aristocracy was going to get buried forever in 40 or so years by Lenin and the Revolution. And they were beyond worse than what came before them.
A young tourist couple on a romantic getaway played on their phones throughout their entire meal. I wondered if they tasted their food.
A woman ate a hamburger while watching something on her laptop.
A reader of the rain book wrote me an astonishing account of how he found the book and what it meant to him in a time of crisis. I wrote that book in a time of crisis. Is that where all the best writing comes from?
My body still hurts after the labor of planting 300 trees.
I reached out to someone I care about. Nothing. I won’t give up.
A former student wrote me that writing in a journal has helped her deal with crisis. I wonder how many of my former students still write in a journal, a practice I introduced and required? That would be interesting to know.