Mary Fox came by the other day---the last person on earth I was expecting to see. I'd have tidied up
if I'd known she was coming. I'd have combed my hair. I'd have shaved. At least I was wearing a suit;
I strive for a sense of professionalism. I was sitting in my study, writing badly, just making words on the page, waiting for something to come through, some sentence I could keep. It was taking longer
that day than it usually did, but I didn't mind. The windows were open. I was sort of listening to something by Glazunov; there's a symphony of his you can't listen to with the windows closed, you just can't. Well, I guess I could, but you'd get agitated and run at the walls. Maybe that's just me.
I want to read this. This first paragraph is just how I roll. I am never prepared for a surprise visit. I am still in my p.j's and my house needs to be picked up everyday.
This is Pic#28 posted this month in anticipation of my 64th birthday tomorrow. I know, really? I am so surprised I get to this day every year. I am sending 63 out with a bang. With as much of a bang as an aging couch potato can muster...