. . . eat beans

. . . What are you doing here?

I’m trying to write.  At home the phone rings, the piles of gravel mutter, the second coat of paint in the bathroom whines for attention.  Also the dog.  While the same sad array of disappointed books and obdurately unlucky rocks stare back at me.  I can be here.  Dinner is already bubbling away: beans, fifteen varieties of.  The laundry: quelled.  The paperwork: up-to-date.  Everyone who needs to be fed or cheered – or fed and cheered – in my immediate purview has been seen to. . . .

.

[story: FEBRUARY 30, 2011 – “taking questions”]

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