Porthole

May, mayo, mai

As I commented to Brian: "I pick up the 'trash'. Of course, that can be meant various ways. I've taken in refugees and friends and others. No longer, because my place is too small, but I took in people for years. I've also been taken in.

I believe in connections. When I travel I connect people all the time. This past year though...

In other ways... I wear second hand clothes, buy food that's about to expire, use grocery bags as garbage bags.

I've written poems from trash I picked up, written poems about people being treated like trash.

I know a thing or two about trash."

"Trash.1 (after the melt)" 
"Picking up the trash" 
"'bargain basement bin'" 

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48 calm degrees after midnight.

You Can And You Will

I'm not Prinz Charmin. I'm not Laud Likable.

It's hard to survive in the world without connections and I don't seem to do well in that category in spite of (or because of) reaching out to others. I feel overwhelmingly lonely some days.

49 degrees at 10:30. It may be a cool damp day. River is rising.

Lost in thoughts. Back to my program, "Lovely Writer".

50 degrees hazy? at 12:34.

I need to write "Sloughing Off Old Skin". Whether it's a short story or novella or screen play it doesn't matter.

A bird must dare to fly to leave its nest. For a snake to grow it must cast off old skin. Like it or not, a caterpillar spins a cocoon to become a butterfly.

It was time for me to brave the Unknown."

I'm not getting much done.

49 degrees at 4 p.m. Never did warm up.

Rain + sun = rainbows. 44 degrees at 8 p.m.

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