I have a lot of thoughts this morning, as I sip on my half-dark roast/half light at Panera. (It’s the best combination; trust me.) I’m thinking about the drafts I am going to review as soon as I’m done posting this. About the piece of cheese The Who bit into the shape of first, Australia and then Maine. About how lots of kids in Pennsylvania have never heard of Maine, like the one he was talking to this morning. (He knew Massachusetts and even New Hampshire. But not Maine.) About how little kids have a lot to process. The one told The Who a story of a robber coming into his house when he was sitting on his homework folder (true!) and the other told him about a car accident she witnessed in New Hampshire. (I love the way little kids can ride a tangent so easily.)

I’m thinking about our basement project and how it seems like a dream come true. How will they turn what it is now into what it will be? Cork flooring that looks like hardwood. A tiny Harry Potter secret under-stair hideout. My own little cubicle for art and work. Whiteboard paint on the wall. It’s day 1 of a probable 25 and we already have a tiny forest made up of sawed down pieces of the wooden railing. (I know this might only make sense to The Who, our contractor, and me.)

I’m thinking a lot about writing after workshop last night. I recycled old memoir pieces, determined to resurrect them, combine them with newer pieces, and make a go of it. I was pleasantly surprised to find that they still, twelve years later, resonated. And amused by how much like stepping into a time machine it was. I felt like Marty McFly, holding all this information about the future, careful to keep it close to the vest so as not to disrupt the natural unfolding of events. It’s hard to edit and massage memoir pieces from a long time ago and it’s good practice for me.

I’m thinking about the protests that shut down the highway in Boston this morning and the ones that shut down the train on the way to the Pats game last weekend and all the other ones that have shut things down in the past couple of months. And all those people complaining about the inconvenience and saying things like, “Make them move! We really got to stop being chicken of these idiots.” I bet these same people will celebrate MLK on Monday and they’ll never make the connection. You can’t take a day off from work, say you’re not racist, and then say things like that.

There’s more. Art. Breakfast. Cooking. Money. Travel. The recurring dream about this family that I know peripherally. But I really have to start working on those drafts.


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