Distance and language does a number on friendships. I have known a friend, my dearest friend, for ages (not just a while); since 1993. We are different probably only in age and circumstance. I'm older and poorer, and I have always had to work for a living to continue my struggle for the American dream, but I am finally hurt by the different sets of circumstance.
I am hurt to hear, "why don't you write a book" and to hear, "if you lived here, in Sweden, you would have written two books" because of some socialized support which America won't ever know as though to avoid particularly supporting its writers and artists. As though precisely this.
Dear everyone: I work for a living. I work full time, and a year ago I went through a cancer thing kind of full time and my dog was kind of dying, slowly. The year before, I worked for a living and I taught on top (when I say work, it's full time, professional administrative job that on the whole is so painfully cumbersome of its paperwork that my bosses often apologize and thank me and us because it's not a job I went to school to find, but here it is and if I shrug my shoulders my life is about 3/4 through (I reason) so, SO WHAT). Not easy to find the time to write. Living alone has its doom, but then why would I put some person in front of the only thing I care about? I wish I liked people I suppose, but having been a lover of love I think I would have fared better had I been a hater of love, more a war-sayer. I'd not have been pointless.
WHAT ELSE: I have a buddy in Skeeter.
Skeeter is in love with me. What he doesn't know is that he may stay with me or go to the best bidder (he's free to a good home). This morning he shows me his nose and now we're going off into the woods. (He's a bit of an ox on a harness, and I can't set him free yet in the woods. It's tricky and one wrong yank of me by him could have us sledding back, me on my stomach). It's a ride for a spell.