Today has been a slow mover. I spent the early part of the day running errands. I sent a copy of The Nick Poems to James’ mother in Florida. She might get a kick out of them. Her son was a great storyteller. After the post office I had to do some banking. Harmless transactions.
It’s weed-whacking season. The hills are drying out and every year come April the city mandates that the weeds are abated from properties. There are two or three guys with their gas powered weed-whackers toughing it out in the sun. They have their work cut out for them. It’s a sizable hill. Steep. It looks dusty, and I can hear the whackers jam up once in while. It’s suppose to rain again sometime this week. It would be a shame if the weeds came back after the rain.
I’ve built myself a nice writing cabin. I’ve been tending to my chili peppers and making my Japanese rice rolled in seaweed. I’ll toss an occasional cucumber in there and some Wasabi. Life is good here on earth. Life is real good.
