I used to visit friends of my father at a small East Coast fishing village when I was a boy…

Because I was so small and insignificant, they were very open to being themselves. I noticed that whenever someone was present that they didn’t know, they behaved differently; they were more polite and proper. The following will illustrate how they were around me.

There was a man in their village whose wife died suddenly of cancer. The man grieved a very short while and soon thereafter met another woman whom he married mere months after his first wife died. The man’s second wife died of cancer within 1 year of their wedding…

After that, they referred to this man as rotten cock.

It’s rare anymore for me to be up this early on a Sunday sunrise, and many of the party crowds of Saturday somehow now seem like bad fashion.

I am on my way to work and glad of it as the crowds down at the salt mines is still on strike.

The migrant workers crowd onto the street car with me on their way to the early morning shifts at the hotels. There are no factories left in the city.

The train is now leaving the city core, and the crowds are behind me. Nothing but the day ahead.

When I was a kid in the 1960s, the farmers could be heard lamenting about a changing world that they feared.

Beautiful stone cobbled streets of small towns were replaced with “The Shopping Mall Generation!” AND cities grew. “Who would grow the food?” The farmers asked.

But did anyone see this coming down the pike? A generation so smart that they make money while they sleep?

A generation who became so important that not having children became for them, the best option. Which is probably the best thing since we can no longer determine genders…

I am not afraid. I am not in control. I am embarrassed… or am I entertained?

They look soft, seated on public transit. Staring into their phones on the way to the ballgames, pretending not to notice the children and elderly standing…

I was definitely an ultracrepidariam during my formative years, often expressing opinions and insights on subjects that I knew nothing about.

This was before the internet and social media. Now, after getting acquainted with the views of a wide range of individuals on the world wide web… I’m beginning to think that mine was very normal behavior or I was just ahead of the curve!

I’m writing this here novel. There isn’t much to lose.

Except for my peace of mind and friendships.

Sent to these File Manager Blues.

I’m trying to tell a story. If you read it. This you choose.

However, first, I have to find my myself.

Send to File Manager Blues.

The world of nothing certain. I’m staying off the booze.

So much love and hurtin…

In these File Manager Blues.

I can’t find the sender. I guess that won’t make the news.

Lost in bells and whispers.

In the File Manager Blues.

I watched her rise and fall over our sleepy little town. That dead rock in the sky, that shines over us all… Who knows the secrets here? Where? Where everyone pretends that nothing happens.

The warm salt waters of the Gulf Stream flow north from Mexico, along the eastern continental shelf, passed Cape Breton and beyond. Cold arctic air sweeps down over frozen tundra and bristles raised hairs on hunched backs, along Labrador and into the Northumberland Strait. Where these 2 meet is a spit of land that rises out of the Atlantic, just north of New York City, and is formerly known as New Scotland. It’s because of this; the north winds and the south currents that the conversations here are usually always about the weather…

To an outsider, it would appear as if nothing else goes on here but the weather. However, appearances are deceiving. Nothing is as it seems…

Reminds me of the old joke… A man from the city asks a fisherman, “What do you do around here for excitement.”

The fisherman smiles, ” In the summertime we fish and we fuck. In the winter, we don’t fish. “

I was looking for a lover.

Who could love me without guilt.

It started out so hopeful.

But shame had that house built.

I couldn’t get my feet set.

My eyes were never dry.

I gave it all. I’m standing tall.

No who or when or why.

“There are 32 ways to tell a story, and I’ve used everyone, but there’s only one plot, things are not as they seem.

Jim Thompson

The night was playing shadows.

The moon was riding high.

I was listening from under sheets.

Either I was tired, or I was shy.

The sounds came from the alley.

A desperate haunting moan.

I couldn’t tell if I was dreaming.

But I desired to be alone.

There’s a distant rolling thunder.

And a cool breeze foretells rain.

I wonder where the cat is.

And it’s back to sleep again.