The coffee is cold.
The Writer is hot. He wants to keep writing. But - I need to return to work.
"It's too soon," The Writer protests with a shrill childish voice. "Can't we stay a little longer."
No; time to go. Maybe we can write tonight, I suggest.
He rejects it with anger. "You always say that but it doesn't happen much, doesn't it?"
He's got me there, and I have a lot of 'real work' to do, spilled onto me by others' procrastination. Be flexible, I remind myself.
I see his point, though.
Walking down to TB, I pass a small trailer court. It's built on a slope, an Ashland fixture for several decades. Privacy fences surround most of it but as I descend the hill, I can look into it. I also pass along its fringe, where people work on their trailers, adding impromptu rooms and whatnot made of found materials, like fiberglas or aluminum panels. There's also creations made of doors, fences, and other partitions created from plywood.
Walking past, the place always fires all my imaginations' cylinders. Looking at that place, it can be a survivor camp, fending off zombies, or a struggling colony on another world. It gives raise to many ideas of what could be. But what it is, in fact, is a place where people struggle on limited incomes. I've met several people from the dwellings and it's clear that it is a survivor's enclave, creating worlds and community for themselves and pursuing their dreams. There's a tough edge to their existence. The precipice is always near and the wind always blows.
I admire them for determinedly building a life there and holding on to dreams to have other things.
Then my imagination moves in, and they're on a starship....
Causes Michael Seidel Supports
Kiva, Women's International League for Peace and Freedom, Propublica.org, Doctors Without Borders, GreaterGood.com