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.
The last round of blood tests trying to locate the cause of my extreme fatigue over the slightest exertion returned nothing of any meaning. My triglycerides are still slightly elevated despite taking a medication for exactly that result from the last blood test. My potassium is slightly low despite taking one medication and a daily supplement for exactly that result from tests over the past decade. Everything else, everything blood can be tested for (include Valley Fever, the local version of Lyme’s Disease) are exactly as you’d expect for a healthy person.
Rather than becoming a professional patient, since there’s no indication anything life-threatening is going on, no evidence of a ticking clock, and no suggestion that a solution is on the horizon, I’m going to treat myself, starting with the daily bike ride I’ve neglected since the fatigue set in, a return to daily mindfulness meditation, and a continued drive toward emotional and spiritual balance and security.
If you find me beside my bicycle in the ditch with my heart or head exploded, remind me I’m in good health for someone my age. I’m sure I’ll feel much better.
Another reason to hold your horses (and wallets.) This is nothing like I’ve ever written before. It is an experimental stream-of-consciousness romantic mystery novella. What’s it about? It’s about 20,000 words oh ho.
Here’s the sample from the back cover:
“I knew you wouldn’t take me seriously.”
“Not saying that. I need the lay of the land before I take the case.”
“Just because I’m not old enough to drive—”
“Hey, age has no bearing on whether someone needs help.”
“Or tells the truth.”
“That, too. People of all ages lie to me. People of all ages get confused about people they love. People of all ages come in here and tell me all kinds of stories. I pepper them with questions like I’m doing right now, and if I don’t like their story, they can take it somewhere else. So like I said, age has nothing to do with it whether I’ll believe you, or take you seriously, or take the case even if I do. I still need to know what makes you think she’s in trouble.”
“She packs my lunch for school every day. Writes me notes.”
“This is not surprising.”
“Wait, I wasn’t finished. This is the note I found in my lunch today. Read it.”
“He’s going to kill me. Get help.”