Russian music is playing on NPR. since I’m back to reading Dostoevsky these days, I’m psyched about this. however, the helicopters are a hateful distraction. in my childhood I went for a little ride in one with the local weather man, looking down at the flat firehouse grounds 50 feet below. things are different now.
even some things that appear positive don’t always turn out so positive. I realize the important lesson that I have to simplify. my passions are to read and to write as my own person and let all the other chips do what they want. go on writing books . . . and taking pictures. yes, they had the trains and American winter town set up in the mall. I looked down wishing I was there, in this carefree pure and happy place where it was a flawless Christmas of youth free of cynicism and anthrax and smallpox.
this is one place I come to put the words down. with two jobs now, time is so limited for every single little thing I do. in the evening home I cross the long cold bridge and don’t complain about it. at least not yet.
be kind to that guy passing you
he takes pictures and writes about
anything he wants
but keeps his mouth shut
and really bothers no one
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