New Year's Stream of Consciousness

It’s the kind of day on which great songs are written. The windows frame an inspiring scene –tall pines dusted in lace, a backdrop of for heavy white snowflakes that float leisurely without purpose. 

 Snippets of prose land momentarily and then disappear just as quickly, avoiding capture. So many thoughts, ideas, positions vying for attention, a place on the page. But the chaos only paralyzes, and I choose to let the forces that be make the final cut. 

It’s January second and as per usual, I have procrastinated, not in reflecting on the year past and my current state of being, but rather, in giving them form. Can there be such a thing as too much inspiration? I suspect that my long absence from writing has created a bottleneck, better known as writer’s block. 

Deconstructing Christmas 

The dog sits impatiently at my feet in the hopes that I will tug at his toy or at least show some interest in play. The banging coming from my upstairs living room has me wondering if hubby is chopping down our tree rather than removing it. Grunts and groans and refusals of assistance are muffled by the soft strains of John Denver. We have successfully deconstructed the adornments of Christmas and the house is returned to casual attire. 

 I sit in front of a fireplace that will be crackling by mid-afternoon. I gaze out at the symphony of peace and dreamlike tranquility that only nature can deliver. I breath it in, struggling to stay present, still, after more than six years of this ethereal beauty, I can barely believe this is my reality. I wonder how many more sleeps, famjams and fires we will enjoy here. 

 String of Pearls

I have lived a life in which all my dreams have come true. I have enjoyed all of the wonderful experiences that my mind’s eye and imagination could conjure. For years we balanced a seaside condo with the blazing sunset framed perfectly by our front window, sharing this wonder with friends and family, providing tropical vacations where there may not have otherwise been. We released that dream to fulfill another – a large boat that could hold our entire family. The boat was our sanctuary, serving as our floating place of peace. Falling asleep to rhythmic lapping of waves on the stern and the creaking of rubbing lines on the dock and awaking to the song of seagulls and the gently tolling of sailboat bells was our respite from our frenetic city lives. Over the years, the boat gave way for a humble lakeside cabin. Again, my version of paradise shifted and we spent six summers perched high in the trees, gazing at the magnificent vista and swimming in fresh clean water. When it was time to try our hand at country living, we let go of our cabin to create a natural swimming pond on five acres of history. 

There was a time in which I thought each of these fulfilled dreams would be accumulated like a lifetime string of pearls but my mother was right – we can have it all, but maybe not all at the same time. I’ve had to release and let go to make space for the next. Dream it. Live it. Release. Repeat. And so it is the memories of these experiences that are my pearls that create my lifetime monument and not the material accumulates. 

 And I thought I didn’t have anything to write about.  

Invisible

Today the writing prompt was ten minutes on "how am I invisible". This should be good. Anyone who sees me takes my loquaciousness as a sign that I am an extrovert -- talkative and friendly with people. Anyone who really knows me that I am in introverted extrovert with skills. I get high anxiety walking into a room of people I don't know, especially if I am alone. Public speaking  - presenting? I quit jobs over that. I am content to sit back and observe rather than force engagement. I sit in the front row at conferences and meetings. My dad taught me that. I don't even let myself think about it, or choose. I simply walk to the very front of the room and sit alone (usually) in the front row. No escape route. Eyes focused frontwards, exuding false confidence. I have skills. But I digress. Here is my ten minute response to the prompt.

They laugh at one another’s stories and musings, building on them as they take on awkward and hilarious structures. I try to interject but they are lost in their frivolity and energy, completing one another’s thoughts and sentences and are oblivious of my attempts to join in.

There is so much life and happy chaos swirling around me and yet I feel alone in a quiet cone. Invisible really. They no longer need me as they did, certainly not as a source of entertainment or information. They are standalone, self sufficient women in their own rights, confidence cemented in their sisterhood. They have one another. They form a triangle of loyalty and love and each could not be more different. They challenge and criticize one another – and when I am fortunate enough – they do me as well. They debate in heated tones. Their convictions and passions spilling over the kitchen table onto innocent bystanders. 

They are warriors as am I. They have reserves to care for not only their own but their communities. They are equipped to face the unexpected, the dreaded and the pain that awaits. And they possess a vibrancy for art, learning, family and life.

I am quietly proud as the observer of their relationship. It is after all a triangle, not a square. 

Heavy sigh from daughter on the other end. 

I'm Not Thinking Of...

We lost an hour this weekend for Daylight Savings Time and the first day living it is always a bit rough. I sat at my computer wondering if Daughter would make it. I need not have worried. My cell rang just as I settled myself  and arranged my coffee cup in front of the computer. We kept the pleasantries to the minimum, and got right to the prompt. Ten minutes to write about "I'm not thinking about".

 I’m not thinking of the windows that need to be painted that stare back, guilting me about the fact they are half finished. Like an old man with white wispy hair, the tops are a shiny crowning glory and the bottoms are rustic wood. “I’ll get to you” I promise, but right now, I am not thinking about that.

I am not thinking about the day ahead. My head is already too full. It is early and I am still untangling my many dreams, remembering, analysing and trying desperately to piece the fragments together. I am unsettled until I do so. They were important - that I know. Technicolour dreams filled with people I do not know in homes and locations that are new to me. What does it all mean?

I focus on the coffee slowly dripping out, as I try to stay focused. My thoughts start to drift too far ahead of the moment and I tell myself, there is lots of time for that. But for now – I am not thinking of that. Only of the coffee cup in front of me, the aroma wafting through the kitchen, and the dog barking incessantly at the patio door. 

I am not thinking too much at all.  

A Year to File Under "Made It"

 

It's been a year. One like no other. A year of epic proportions navigating a global pandemic. 

We sent our staff home and I collected my essentials, preparing for what I expected to be a few weeks working from home. Who knew it would morph into a year parked in front of my laptop watching the seasons come and go from my kitchen window. 

It was life changing on all fronts. And while many boasted their creative endeavors on social media, I wrote nothing. In a time that will be one for the history books; one that was brimming with firsts and new experiences and testing my mental and physical stamina; I had nothing. I couldn't write a word about it, nor did I have any desire to do so.

And a quick scan of my hefty collection of journals confirms it. When life is tough, I don't write about it. My journals are flush with three year gaps. Divorces. Sickness. Deaths. Stress. I lived all of it but I didn't record it. Maybe it is because my mother taught us that thoughts materialize; that the power of positive thinking works just as strongly the other way. Think it and so it shall be. Expect the worst and you will surely get it. She helped wire me to expect the best possible outcome. It's a reflex. I have a medical test and I expect things to be just fine. If they aren't, I am truly surprised. 

For many, writing about their woes is therapeutic and cathartic. No so for me. Writing gives "it" form. It gives those times a permanent home that I really don't feel the need to revisit. That doesn't mean I deny them or rewrite history. I proudly own each and every choice in my life - positive and otherwise. They have brought me to this very moment.  Teaching. Shaping. Empowering. Me. The journey of my evolution.

During the pandemic I turned 60, became a grandma for the second time, resurrected some relationships after a 20 year hiatus, missed celebrating milestone birthdays, mourning losses and cancelled famjams. My hunger and appreciation for my family and loved ones has deepened. I miss them.

It's been a year and over time, I won't remember the details and every complaint, and worry. I will however always remember the love and longing I felt. Just like the books on my shelf that I can't remember the name of a single character or plot, but I remember how I felt about the read. 

This past year gave us space to learn how creative and resilient we are; how kind, supportive and caring we can be; and what community looks like. 

It was a year like no other. And we made it, a luxury denied millions.

I Am Thinking Of

Today's 10 minute writing prompt: I am thinking of...

I am thinking of so many things at this exact moment in time. The arrival of spring is upon up us – or so she would have us think. For the first time this morning I heard the squirrels having a turf war with the crows. Dogs barked incessantly in the background and a flock of geese flew noisily overhead. The ground was spongy, and snow covered most of the ground. I stepped in dog poop that was disguised as earth. That’ll be a pick-up job for another day. 

I marveled and how quickly the seasons change. They lure us in with promise of warmer weather and springtime just long enough to hammer us with a final dose of winter. Our taxes are due in a week. Springtime surprise, I thought as I see the recycle bin roll by. 

My to do list is infinite, even in this pandemic. How is that possible? I have to see my dad soon. It’s been too long. And my grandkids are probably not going to know me. I am feeling busy and tired but in a strange way satisfied. Daily writing has been a blessing. A reminder that there is something in every day of living worth writing about. It is easy to forget that. My pile of half read books beckon – don’t forget about us. And my puppy whines at my feet, also asking me to not forget about him. Just to make sure I don't, he snatches my rubber book and makes off across the kitchen. 

Fridays seem to be that day when we finally allow ourselves to let down, and let it all hit us. My mind overflows with memories, reminders, faces, ideas – genius ones at that – wishes and dreams. I am thinking that maybe I need to take a break from thinking for a bit. I wander down the hallowed pathways of my memories, excavating, those that I have left undisturbed for so many years. I do this when I am thinking about my mother. It always comes back to her. I miss her. But if I let myself, I can conjure up the warmth of her neck, her kind voice and her loving embrace.

And how is your Friday?

Numbers

The dog was whining but the coffee was made and daughter was on the phone to deliver the day's writing prompt. Our puppy senses that this time spent with daughter writing is precious, more precious than playing fetch or wrangling his chew toy in a game of tug of war. He demands to be heard and it lands him in his crate, if only for ten minutes. And then, poised, ready and waiting over my keyboard, she tells me the prompt -- numbers. My fingers hit the keys, bringing form to threads, notions and incomplete thoughts, resurrecting memories filed in the farthest corners of my archive. Here we go.

Numbers. Measuring, quantifying, assigning value. They can be simple as an age or as complicated as a variable mortgage. 

Numbers were my friend, and then they weren’t. In grade school I shone brightly with sums and multiplications but we started to part ways with the introduction of long division.

And then there was algebra – a mix of x’s and y’s and unknowns. Mrs. Gurney passed me with 51% to ensure I would not be a repeat customer.

And years later, I became a sales manager with commission and reward tied to goals – numbers! Calculating, estimating and ultimately putting a dollar sign in front of those numbers and suddenly they all made sense. 

I don’t have a favourite number. But apparently the devil does. I lived at 666 Moffat Street and I enjoyed the attention that it got whenever I cited my address. The devil’s house! 

I remember the anticipation of turning ten – double digits – as if somehow it heralded to the world that I was no longer a skinny little kid. The extra candles didn’t change that. 

And now I no longer race towards the next age, the next marker of time lived. Those numbers are not my friend but we have come to an understanding. The age I am at this very moment is my favourite – my favourite number. Because it is the only thing of which I am certain. I am. Now. 

And there is no number to quantity my gratitude, for it is infinite.

I Forgot

I was on point this morning - ready at the computer for my next writing prompt with my daughter. She answered sheepishly, "I'm running late Mom. Give me a few minutes."

I thought I would putter while I waited: 

Late
This, that, the other. Don’t forget. Where is that… What did you say? Don’t forget.
Rush, frenzy, discombobulation.
Remember.
Don’t forget.

Then she called to tell me today's writing prompt is "I forgot". I laughed. There are no coincidences. We're connected. Then I "shushed" the dog one more time and hit the keyboard.

I forgot

What? I just forgot. I can’t remember what I forgot, but I know that I forgot.

My dreams are filled with me forgetting… 

forgetting to get my grad gown for high school commencement

forgetting to invite my family to my wedding

forgetting to wear pants to my first day on the job

But those were just dreams.

We were dying to get out of our apartment, take in a movie.

We said “why not? My gut told me there was a reason.

We threw on coats. We locked door and headed down the hall laughing, happy, light.

The elevator opened and we got in. My apprehension followed close behind.

The doors closed.

Then I remembered what I forgot.

We have a baby!

Water

 

"Do you want to do some writing with me, Mom?" she asked. "Only ten minutes a day... with a writing prompt".

It's been a long time since I've properly exercised this writing muscle of mine so I was eager to accept, and just a little intimidated. Daughter is a gifted writer but the rules say that at the end of the ten minutes we read our writing to one another - and listen without judgement and comment. Of course I couldn't contain myself and burst out a compliment when she finished... 

She called me just before seven and stayed on the line as we wrote for ten minutes. Writing in harmony. I think I'm going to like this new ritual.

And now I am renewing my commitment to writing, just a little, if not daily, then as often as I can. 

Today's prompt was "water".

Water

Slipping down my cheek.
Bubbling, welling, until there is no other option but to release and roll.

Pelting waves down my back.
Soothing, scalding ribbons of bliss to awaken me to a new day.

Rhythmic tapping on the roof.
Staccato pellets of comfort reminding me how warm and safe I am.

Washing over with every plunge.
Immersing and then surrendering back to the surface with every stroke.

It draws me in and pulls me closer.
The ebbs and flows inviting, teasing, reminding me that the sea is a part of me.

My place of peace.
The river hears me without judgement. It harbours my secrets and welcomes me home.

On My Way Back to Myself

I've missed you. To be honest, it feels a little strange to be back in this space that was once my place of comfort; exploration and creativity. I strayed; I experienced alot of life; and I reflected. And  just as life famously does, it has deposited me back at the doorstep of this blog. It is calling me and I am ready. It's not unlike dusting off an old trunk of precious treasures and memorabilia.

Last weekend I was at a two-day retreat, Journey to Rise. I went to support my friend Laura and in the process I was awakened to what I have learned over the years of reading, manifesting and knew to be true. I had a sign...I heard people repeatedly calling my mother's name, Roma. It's not a common name especially if you are of Irish/French Canadian descent. And then I realized the gentle healing dog that greeted each of us was named Roma. I warmed at every mention.

I meditate, well, at least since last weekend. I am not good at it. I struggle to keep my mind from cycling and to be still in the quiet. But I have to believe that I'll get better at it.  I have been starting small with short 10-12 minute long guided meditations - last thing I do before I fall asleep and the first thing in the morning. I have been sleeping deeper  and have felt joy radiating from my deepest being all week.

When my eyes are closed and no matter what the meditation calls for, the word LOVE pops up, in fuchsia, blue and purple. What do you want? LOVE. What is your reason for gratitude? LOVE. What do you picture your future self doing? LOVING. I am LOVE.

And my purpose is right there, lurking in the distance, gradually coming into focus.

I am writing. I am creating. I am listening to music. I am reconnecting and strengthening my connections (more about that in my next post) and I feel a deep peace and feeling of gratitude.

I am on my way back to myself.

Stop the Presses

Photo credit: Theresa Brown

He wrote every day, religiously recounting his Arctic adventures, doing his best to recall details; to paint the colour and details in the story. And then he asked me to edit it. That was months ago. I would pick it up, peel through twenty or thirty pages, smoothing out the kinks, preserving the voice, removing random spaces and punctuation - and then weeks would pass. I had a myriad of excuses when he would tentatively ask me "how is the book coming along?". I was busy; work was crazy; I was travelling; I was tired at the end of the day; "I was working on it". But the truth was  - I felt terrible. I could see the sense of urgency he had about getting his book completed, so he could share. And I was holding him up.

So I put this little project of ours at the top of the list, and got it done. It's not perfect. There are some random font changes and a few typos. But the story he put to paper is all his - imperfect and real. And over the past months (maybe even years) that we have spent discussing and collaborating on his project, we have spent precious tine and shared special moments together.

The excited email that I got from him telling me how happy he was with the books, and his note of heartfelt gratitude -- priceless. And for all of that and more, I am truly grateful.

My dad is a prolific blogger. Check out his blog to read more of his adventures and musings: Peering Through a Porthole

February to Forget? Not!

Days of bitter cold blustered by on crystallized sheets of snow - mountains of snow. As per my desktop calendar Kidlet slid into adulthood, unexpectedly. Hearts and love exchanged; dinners prepared and shared; many birthdays celebrated; expectant babies warmly anticipated; and an epic anniversary commemorated. February was ripe with occasion.

Nights of haunting winds howled as fingers tapped keyboards, scrutinizing, imagining, reliving the words dancing across the screen. Versions and versions edited, saved and shared. Although the stories are not my own, familiarity with the words and phrases born of hours of intimacy have seeped into my being and I now wear them.

A month slipped by without a single post to my blog. Was there nothing - no reflection nor retelling - worthy of documenting? February slipped by. It was rich. It was full. And I was busy.

I am putting the finishing touches on my dad's book about his educational career - Restless and Inattentive and we are so close. I joked with him that the book I write will be about an aging over-achiever father who is desperate to leave footprints in the snow. He already has.

And somehow I suspect that after his projects are wrapped and bound, I will look back the many years of this  journey of writing that I have shared with my dad, and be ever-grateful for this very privilege and the time together. I am already.

And so I bid February a fond farewell and welcome March with open arms. I will not miss blustery cold and howling winds as we move on. I'm ready.

On Track

My entry card at the Y still worked but my body had to be convinced to participate. But after a few minutes of exercise, it got easier and I felt so much better. Not sure if it was an optical illusion, but my abs looked tighter -- even though I didn't do any ab work. definitely an optical illusion. Miles to go before I sleep...

I am so close to finishing my Dad's book for him, I can almost smell it. It's been a project half a year in the making and I am anxious to see it through to him holding its soft cover in his hands. He attacks each of his numerous projects with a zeal unmatched by anyone I know. I have catch-up to do in that department. He's a growing concern and tough to keep up with.

Harmony called last night and we talked for almost an hour catching up. While I was on the phone with her, Kidlet called, and a few minutes later, my dad. True to my word, I didn't bump Harmony for the others - I hate when people do it me. Got caught up with Kidlet on my way home from work today (yes, hands free), and then tonight as I spoke to my dad explaining that I had to cut our call short if he wanted me to work on his book, I received two more incoming calls. I can't resist the urge to talk to my family no matter how much stuff is piled up (point to dining room table still stacked with Christmas ornaments). Connecting is important and my lifeline to my loved ones. It's all about priorities, but for the next little bit, I think the book has to be king or (close your eyes Dad)  it will be the never-ending project. No worries; I won't let that happen. But for now, I am off to bed! Priorities people!

Toning the Writing Muscle

My dad asked me if I thought blogging was on the way out - or already done. I told him that I thought so; many of my favourite bloggers haven't posted in months and I rarely get a comment anymore. Blog fatigue. I think the length and commitment of the blog has given way to the succinct 140 character quips and tweets. People are busy and want info served up in small tidy packets.

I get it. But it does not deter me. Because, wisely or not, I blog for myself. I blog to exercise my writing muscle; to express myself; to cause myself to pause at day's end and reflect. After all, any day worth living has a gift - a nugget of truth or wisdom. And I set out to seek the gift.

I have been blogging for more than six years now. I started this space to challenge myself to write every day. I accomplished that the first two years and sadly the number of posts reduced by half in each subsequent year. I waned. I let other things get in the way of writing and I missed it. Writing takes commitment and today I am renewing my vows, so to speak. My "muscle" is flabby (like so many others) but not for long! That's the beauty of time -- we can reinvent ourselves and start anew for tomorrow is a new day. And for that, I am truly grateful.

Sidetracked

I was on the phone with Harmony, immersed in deep conversation about all things legacy, spiritual, and soulful. The topic evolved into a discussion about "angel-speak" - a technique to open one's self up to their "guides", described in a book that Lyndsay had given me shortly after my mom passed. With Harmony on speakerphone, I thumbed through the row of dusty journals as we chatted, searching for the notebook in which I had recorded my angel-speak exercise.

One thing led to another and I found myself reading excerpts from my journals to Harmony. I was astonished at some of the passages (and even a little impressed) -- I had no memory of writing any of it, and the words were as fresh and new as if written by someone else. I lost myself in the unraveling of the hours leading up to my mother's death, and then the vivid imagery of the year and a half that followed.

Only when I heard a little gasp and then sob on the end of the line was I shaken back to my reality, leaving the pain on the pages. I asked Harmony if she was alright and she said she was, that it was just emotional to hear. I told her I would leave the rest of journals for them to read later on -- maybe when I am gone or too senile to care. *Weak attempt to lighten the mood*.

My take away was that I more fully appreciate the importance and significance of documenting emotions, reflections and moments -- and not just the big ones, but also the collection of the minuscule, because it is both that become the construct of our lives. And there is value in sharing pieces of ourselves and our human experience with others.

So I was sidetracked today, but it put me back on track... busy shifting and sorting through my dad's written reflections. And so the journey continues...

Random Rattling

Sometimes there is so much to say - that I say nothing at all. Disjointed emotions,  revelations, epiphanies roll around my head like bumper cars - independently, unattached to words; content to remain unlabeled.

The long weekend opener of the season has come and gone, leaving a promise of sunnier and warmer days to come. The lilacs are spectacular, tapping on the window pane,  their scent - heavy in the air. I captured some and imprisoned them in a clay jug, but judging by the droopy sprigs, they seem to be rebelling. Spent holiday Monday removing last summer's plant corpses from the garden to give the new greenery a chance to thrive. My aging rose bushes lashed out at me as I tried to retire the brown and broken stems - and I have the scratches to prove it! The dandelions went more peacefully but the nasty thorny weeds showed me who's boss!

We've been immersed in precious new life and conversely, the struggles of an aging life. The newscast is riddled with stories of political corruption and man-made and natural disasters. Like a pendulum I swing from disgust and disappointment to shock and heartache at the destruction and losses; Boston, Bangladesh, Iraq, Hamilton, Texas, and Oklahoma. And just when you start to feel the "negative creep" ... stories of human triumph trump all and reminds me of the best part of humankind. Sometimes optimism gets buried under the noise, but like the resilience of humankind, it is omnipresent and just when we need it most, it rises to restore.

Sometimes there is so much to say - that you just start typing and magically the words attach themselves to  emotions and revelations that are rolling around your head - and you are surprised!

Boring

Kidlet says my blog is boring now that I don't write about her (she is living at university). Maybe she's right... she was an endless source of material.

I don't think I had quite caught on that she's moved out, and will probably never live here again.

For the longest time I was still buying the foods she used to like and shopping in bulk, as I'd done for years when I had a houseful. I liked to keep the door to her bedroom open (especially after I cleaned it) as a reminder of her charming personality and Fritz liked to cuddle on her bed. Actually I think he prefers and misses her old smelly hockey equipment. That - I do not miss.

And now the house is a little lot quieter and the peanut butter lasts longer. A bag of milk sits in the fridge for a week and I've taken to freezing the bread, using a few slices at a time. I can get the week's laundry done in 2 rather than 4 loads and the front hallway is devoid of her mammoth stinky hockey bag, knapsack, and random collection of shoes, boots, coats and clutter. And yet I miss her; and the days of when all of the bedrooms were occupied by my gaggle of girls.

But there is much to look forward to as time marches on - or so I keep telling myself. The trick is to embrace the now and future possibilities while cherishing that which has already been. And somewhere in there, seek out the interesting to blog about!

On the Cusp

I just noticed that this blog is teetering with 99 followers the exact same day that my other blog, Soul Snax gained three new followers to also reach 99 (and they are not all the same followers). hmm

I am thrilled that anyone other than my proud papa would want to read something I write, so I think sitting on the cusp of this little milestone is to remind me to be grateful. And so I will  be, and am.

I enjoy the little blogger community I have come to know and be a part of these past four years. There are so many wonderful writers out there and people who willing to share. I have learned that everyone has a story to tell, and I love to read them.

Thank you to all of you who drop by for a visit now and again. It warms my heart. 

Inked

If thoughts were made of ink, oh what a library of works I'd have.

Sifting through my stack of old journals, excavating memories scrawled in my handwriting from moments stolen mostly late at night after little girls were in bed. Random thoughts and musings; funny little things my little girls said and did; milestones; laments; dreams; lists and bits of paper -- copy of my first commission cheque, pros and cons of my new job offer, and lots of treasure notes. I called my daughter to recite one of the adorable entries I wrote about her.

At times the handwriting is meticulous and strong in permanent ink; and other times, it is hurried lines scrawled in faded pencil - each entry a desire to express and archive.

And now I blog. My MIH had my posts rolled into print; three years of thoughts put to ink in one big fat volume. Thank you MIH. And now as I flip through the pages, my words coming back to me, it confirms what I have always known to be true: that I write that which I need most to remind myself.

So it turns out that my thoughts are indeed made of ink. And oh what a library of works I have.

Writing Frenzy

With a little time off I have turned my attention to the stack of documents that I have consolidated into what is to eventually be my Dad's book. For almost twenty years he has been chomping on the bite to put his life's experiences on paper. With several starts and stops, and in between posting daily to his blog, he churned out more than 150 pages of memoirs.

He asked for my help in crafting them into a cohesive story. I was more than flattered - I was honoured. That being said, now that the work is well underway I admit I am daunted, intimidated, and feeling somewhat incapable and unworthy of the task. I want to rise to the challenge and help my dad express all that he wishes and leave his footprints in the snow.

He is an incredible man with an interesting, inspiring story. I am learning more about him than I ever thought possible and I can't wait for it all to be shared with our family. And so we will press on and I will revel in my front row seat to a real showstopper. Stay tuned.

Pulp Non Fiction

He has poured it all out; emptied his memory cache; committed it to paper with the intensity and urgency of a man on a mission.

It's raw; literal mulch; fertile fodder waiting to be sized and pressed into a book. And he has asked me to help. We don't know the shape or weight of what it will be; but the writing will reveal itself.

I can't wait Pops. Bring it on. Send it over. And let it be.