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Hour of gold

It's being eager, excited to start. It's going to sleep reminding yourself to remember your dreams, & waking up with them intact. It's that same dream of the George Washington Bridge, the good one where you hitchhike & get a ride, not the scary one when you drive off the upper level & realize this is IT. It's having lots of interesting challenges ahead. It's finishing a difficult article & feeling good about it. It's coming up with an excellent headline. It's finally figuring out what bugged you about the endless querulous posts of the middle-aged newly-a-woman: it's her demand to be treated just like every other woman when it's no, you just got here, sorry but you're still a tourist, you still haven't learned the customs of the country. It's wondering if you can tell her you're not transphobic but you HAVE been a woman half a century longer than she has, that you live here & she doesn't, at least not yet. It's that people do get folks mixed up, not because she's trans but because people don't make a deep study of everyone that passes. It's that we've all had someone mistake us for someone else, & it isn't usually to our liking. It's Laird Hunt's new book & more Edith Wharton & karate ahead, & a productive meeting already this morning. It's Johnny's soft kiss. Hour of gold, life of gold.
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