Damn Johns

Vacation ends.

Here I am looking off the cliff, reading what I can from my books before sleep shadows over and it is Monday morning. My cat is the most serene person in the room. His eyes are closed, making little grunting noises. What it means for me to write as a valid person in the world, is all unclear to me, until I read favorite pieces, letters . . . The bookstores can intimidate a would be writer; he thinks, “What can I add to all this?” standing in the middle, turning the body around to all the different sections: Fiction, Travel, Cooking, Computers, Reference . . . The question still continues to bother him. “What I write, how can it be any different than what is already there?” Anyhow, he expects the most important thing, to reach a conclusion, a certain path to take to escape from darkness and into light. It is not always so clear. In fact, it is madness, and how does one even expect it, to hold the hell together at all?

You must!
insists my opponent, having so far beaten me at 3 games of checkers.

My poor, poor vacation is over. I want to cry at the top of the stairs. But I will be all right. And I will stop talking about myself now.