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My Life

My Life

That wafting white dove

Was a plastic bag

Update: My friend Dan MacLeod in Montreal, writer & journalist, gave me the perfect next lines, to make this both sadder & more hopeful:

And if I'd turned my head sooner—

If I'd not looked—

It would still be a dove
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Me mum

Here's Joyce at the Phoenix airport, enroute to her new home in St. Paul. Ooops, she forgot her shoes!
At the age of 93, my mother is taking on a new adventure. At the long-time urging of her kids, she is leaving Arizona for warm, sunny Minnesota. She's so positive about the move, being near her kids, getting back on her feet. I hope I'm half as sharp if & when I hit her age. I wish I were half as sharp right now, for that matter.  Read More 
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When I took the bus in 1981, with my cousin, at the start of our two-month trip through Mexico & Central America, I loved the scrubby landscape from San Antonio to Laredo. I thought I would be happy driving a bus that route, back & forth, day after day, seeing nothing but rundown, non-majestic south Texas. These subway pillars make me happy in the same way. They're not glitzy or renovated or facelifted. They look like they've lived their years.  Read More 
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As Maureen Owen called it, "no travels journal"

The day after I marveled at seeing birch trees, quite a few of them, in New York City (well, Queens), I saw these on 5th Street, one block west of my office. I've probably walked past them a thousand times without them ever registering
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I go to Queens...

... Where I see birch trees and chocolate sculptures I'm asked not to lick, & find out about something called the "W" train. Birch trees seem only like Maine to me, not New York, but I couldn't summon that forest feeling. I was reminded of my two favorite trees on Flying Moose Mountain in East Holden, where I lived for a few months. They were two double birches, & probably my favorites because I could always recognize them & they meant I wasn't lost. I was afraid of everything in the outdoors.  Read More 
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The Dark Years III

This tyranny is too absurd, and its absurdity is too obvious to too many people for it to last.

Literature. Nothing is nobler than its play when it is the flower of freedom, but nothing is baser than when it is the means of doing without freedom, of avoiding the risks of freedom—when it is entertainment and a cover for the servitude one has accepted.

I don't know if I've already noted my deepest reason for hope. It's just that all this is too absurd. Something as absurd as this cannot possibly last.

Never have so many people in Europe known how to read and yet never ave there been so many herd animals, so many sheep. In times gone by, a man who didn't know how to read would save himself through  Read More 
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My birthday

is a week from tomorrow. Is an impeachment too much to ask for?
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The joy of snow

Easy to know what to say today because it's all I can ever say when it's snowing. Yay!!!

What a nice relief from all the rest of what's going on.

Which I shan't enumerate.

But will return to momentarily.
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Homage to Grandma Alice

The 5 magnificent Woodland sisters: Nellie, Jessie, Eva, May & Alice (my grandma).
My cousin Peta—the most accurate holder of family data—just told me that it was on this date in 1982 that Grandma Alice died.

Alice was the second-oldest of the Woodlands, who were the strongest, smartest, most powerful women you could ever hope to meet.

Being a Woodland in our family means having a dramatic streak. When one of the  Read More 
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From the Vault: XIII

The Fort Report (Contributor Notes)

Marvin Cohen, a young novelist

The father of Ubu Roi
dead not dead dead

Puerto Rico, the Southwest, a husband in Maine

Racers to the sun

The difference between invincible & obsolete:
A speeding motorcycle

In 1964 Elisabeth Mann Borgese of Florence, Italy, taught a dog to write 6  Read More 
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