09/16/2025
Facing down the bourgeoisie in Minneapolis.
I have no vocabulary. I feel that I’m five. What’s the word for bread? I know! don’t tell me! I know it! just not right now…
Facing down the bourgeoisie in Minneapolis.
I have no vocabulary. I feel that I’m five. What’s the word for bread? I know! don’t tell me! I know it! just not right now…
The importance in our lives of small things because those small things are our lives.
I’m not a sport person. I don’t feel at home on a team and hate organized competition.
I suppose it’s not actually the sport itself to which I object—running is good, and I guess kicking things—it’s the rah-rah stuff that tends to surround it: the war games.
Friday I wrote: Though a garden can be read as a metaphor, I do my best to see mine for what it is. I spent time outside yesterday in one of those fall days that are as precious and fleeting in their way as when the forsythia opens in spring, though on the other end of the year’s spectrum. These days don’t last…
The wedding took place in Pereira, Colombia, and most if not all of the family were there to see one of us, a great-niece of mine, get married at an elegant old hacienda to a handsome, enterprising Colombian who was in turn surrounded by his distinguished family and friends. I was there to officiate, one of two, me speaking English, the groom’s uncle, Spanish.
