I've been writing in my little black book, which rather explains my absence from these tableaux of words all dressed up. A brief update of what I've been indulging in: poetry, as in Mark Strand's brilliant "Blizzard of One" (not that I understood every poems written in it.), movies, as in the emotionally charged "The Reader", the anti-ageism drama "A Curious Case of Benjamin Button" and the funny-like-an-anima "K-20", and I started running a route from Rifle Range Road to MacRitche Reservoir and from my house to Bontanic Garden. And now I'm re-reading "The Reader" after ten years.
Otherwise, thoughts about death, individuality, existence without a partner to make me a better man, swam in a choppy sea.