some more late thoughts

My 13 year old daughter has never known me as anything but a writer. She came along well after my life in accounting, construction, janitorial services, computers, and the web.

When asked the inevitable “What do you want to be when you grow up?” she’s always had one answer:

A writer.

She has sleep issues. Sometimes she uses her sleepless hours to write. This is something I found this morning.

once i went to a coffee shop and in one room of that coffee shop was a white piano and a white bench and a marker and people had written stuff all over the piano and the bench with the marker and honestly i thought that was so cool.

i really like that kind of stuff.

i think it’s really neat.

people years from now may never meet you, never know you, never know anything about you, and you can scratch something into a tree or a wall or write it on a chair and someone out there will see that and know you exist.

you know what would be cool

when you’re about to move out of a house, leaving a note somewhere. maybe a letter. or part of a journal. or would that end up getting cleaned out? either way someone would see it.
i like thinking about that kind of stuff. i want to do that kind of stuff. leave notes in cracks and write on trees and just. leave little messages for people who will never even know me.

it sounds like something out of a story. well i’d read that. someone moving into a new house and finding a journal about the life of whoever lived there before them.

i think that should be a thing people do. leave notes all over the world. maybe it is. maybe not. i guess people don’t really think about that kind of stuff.

not just because i want people to know i exist. i want people to have the experience of finding messages from someone they’ll probably never meet. messages meant just for them.

because that sounds really magical.

Perhaps it’s just a father being a father.

There’s a song she and I both love called These Walls by a Welsh artist called SERA. The chorus goes

I’m peeling back the paper
Layer upon layer
Stories are still hanging in the air.
And they speak to me of wonder
The struggle of it all
Thinking of the ones that went before
And it’s all here in these walls.

It has a certain appeal, knowing that something you did, said, wrote, has become a little bit of history.

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