1.12.26 From the middle of January Oh what a month it has been. Truly more than a month since my last entry. Busy busy busy, as a bee in the heart of spring. I see all the flowers at the florist and think maybe I should get a bouquet for my love. It is an easy gesture if an expensive one, but I don’t mind the money. In fact today seems much brighter than yesterday if it is a grey and gloomy day outside. There I go again writing about the weather, as if any of you cared about

11.24.25 Nearly 4 O’clock on a Monday It is one of those days, another one of those days when the skin seems to crawl in its jonesing for a smoke. But we will be strong and forget how we used to cope with this feeling. Instead we will have a high noon (sip it slowly, Richard) and a glass of water to quell the shakes. We will look at the cedar trees in the neighboring yard and smile at the way they have not shed their robes as all their deciduous fellows. There it is, the repe

10.23.25 Alone for the weekend The world is upside down, baby is on a private jet bound for North Carolina and I am here in the P waiting for her to return. Of course I will have some engagements in the meantime, firstly the double shift I will be working today until who knows when. Hopefully time for a telephone call home though that home will be some hundreds of miles away. For now it is a breakfast sandwich and a double espresso, a lonely heart and an hour to kill. How man

9.25.25 On wanting something more We revisited the first entry in this long and tortuous missive last night, a pining for something beyond the confines of the relationship I was in at the time. This was common in those days, so common that I thought it was normal. I was never satisfied with what I had, and was always looking to strangers for a flicker of attraction that would make me feel alive. How foreign that feels now that I feel alive every time I look at Tara’s smiling

8.22.25 Early, Early The sun has yet to rise and here I am before the blank page, another day spent in service of word, or perhaps Word (Big Word), in the service of inquiry and self expression, of making all the inside things to come to light. Inside of me, that is, the things that make me tick that I have been so generous (is that the right word?) with sharing in here. It is cool, the early morning air has a chill that could not quite be called biting, no it merely tugs at

7.27.25 The world speaks to me sometimes Little things. Things that are almost insignificant. Like the dog barking incessantly outside the window. Or the squeaky calipers on the cop car driving by an hour ago. Little messages, little tales of how things could be different if we only could band together and forget our differences. Now that isn’t true of course. None of it is. The world doesn’t speak to me any more. It used to though, and it made me crazy. Little signs and sign

6.20.25 Maybe Maybe Maybe Here I am almost marking another year. And the blues here in this season of sun, this solstice day of the longest hours of daylight. Oh to be young again, but then again I was mostly miserable. What keeps me from being miserable now? Not much, not much. But the days go by being busier than I would like to be. Seeing less of my loved ones than I would like to. The inherited sadness of my spiritual lineage. The sorrow for the state of, the weight of th

5.21.25 Think Long and Hard Think long and hard about what it is you want to say. About why you are upset. Is there even a reason or are your emotions just riled up and you don’t want to feel any more? Why have you been having thoughts of suicide? Is it just because you aren’t getting your way at the moment? What even is your way? What do you want? Are you just threatened by the unknown? There it is again with the questions. But really Richard, what is it that has you on the

4.19.25 Wedding today, Easter tomorrow As I sit here and listen to sad songs, I wonder why I am the way I am. Surely it is all the things I have experienced that have made me this way, but surely too there is some essence of me that remains unchanged by all the different experiences. I must have an essential self, but why then is it a stranger to me? F. Scott Fitzgerald ended his first novel with the phrase “I know myself, and that is all—”, and he was just a twenty something