Let’s say you find yourself traveling along a road through a dense forest. Shadows loom and flutter from a hidden light. Nothing makes sense. You come around a bend into open space under a clear sky. At last you see exactly what it’s all about. Where you’re going. What you’ll do when you get there.

Me, I’m stuck back there in the woods.

Maybe those lucky ones are fooling themselves. I’m still stuck in the deep woods or, at best, on the fringe. The Fringe could be where it’s really at.

Or not. The problem is, when you’re on the fringe nothing is exactly secure.

Except your own marginality.

Now I’m aging to boot. Getting old is a suck-ass arrangement. I don’t remember signing a contract for this shit. Could be I did. If so, what’s in it for me?

When I was young with no prospects and little or no resources I was at least young. Being young (I’m talking under fifty five) you have the power of resilience. You’re like one of those Marvel Super Heroes that’ve captivated a feeble-minded public. No task is so overwhelming you wont take it on. And when you fail (as you do more often than not) the shit never sticks completely. Time and again you manage to rise from your self-sewage as a redeemed version of yourself.

Pushing seventy It becomes harder for me to deny I could’ve done better. Harder still to deny I could’ve been better. Lately, I’ve managed to banish this little reprimanding voice in my head. There’s a good chance he’ll be back. Gladly, he’s no longer part of a chorus. The others are long dead.

Writing about him is no fun.

I don’t write for therapy. Writing for me is a Sunday afternoon at the movies. Something to sneak off to. Anyway, I still get off on old Movies. Life so far has been kinder to me than I deserve.

I’m a Dog named Lucky.

Laundry

When I fear the walls of my life caving in, I do laundry. I clean and fold my jeans and shirts and underwear. It’s a way to dupe myself. I’m making gains. Doing laundry–washing away the rank, folding t-shirts, etc.–I pretend I’m making progress. I’m still an Old Fart. Yet I’m prepared now for the ragnarokian struggle.

twilight of the Gods

Unlike my Writing, Laundry is Therapy

Chaos in the midst of calm

Sure, the laundry helps.

I’m feeling calm.

All is not calm!

Least of all here in Joan’s refuge of calm.

THEY are here.

Legions of hellish squirrels are massing.

Clawing at week spots in the eves of her roof where they dig a hole and invade the attic. They make themselves a squirrel crack house, nest, eat meth, shit and pee with abandon.

Mold spreads. Disease…

Death.

They’ve invaded her neighbor’s home.

Leaving rotting corpses in their wake.

Now they’re coming for Joan.

Squirrels of Armageddon.

Well…there’s more.

You can run but you can’t hide.

My old Buddy Don clued me to this one.

The sargasso sea pressed a five thousand mile patch of killer seaweed onto Florida beaches.

Plastic garbage infused virus infested Brain eating Zombie seaweed awaits bathers.

Don’t step in it you fool!

We’re next.

Like the blob it’ll consume us.

That is, if we survive the crazed Squirrels.

I’m not sweating it

I’ll soon join the ranks of the Nomad population.

Not these Nomads.

These:

Bindord road. Novato. A two mile stretch of Nomads.

Only I won’t be hanging with the herd.

I’ll be Urban Camping.

That means I’m stealth.

I’ll be hiding in plain sight!

Like this chick.

Hey, isn’t that the Close Encounters of the Third Kind mountain in the distance?

Meanwhile life goes on

Gotta stay positive.

The Economy seems to be picking up. Plenty of jobs out there.

Like the local Sushi joint.

grammar skills not required

The DMV now offers automated kiosks.

Popped out my tags in less than a minute!

I’m still slinging the free booze samples.

Some are confident in my ability

Others skeptical.

Most indifferent.

Occasionally I sell a bottle.

But I’m not sweating it.

I’m not on commission anymore.

I’m taking it easy.

Hey, wasn’t that a song?