It feels good to work, to have my feet aching when I get home at night. My cash drawer has balanced three days straight, and I'm told that's exceptional for a greenhorn teller. Actually, we're not called tellers anymore. We're customer service representatives. The money's nice, but the real value of work goes beyond the paycheck. It comes from knowing you've done something well, something that others value, and that people are counting on you to do. Whether you show up every day matters. There are jobs I'd rather have, those for which I may be better suited, and maybe I'll land one of those someday, but I'm not terrible at this one, and I don't hate it either. People expect their money to be handled with care, and that's what I do. From a writer's perspective, there is plenty of good story material to be had in a bank, I can feel it.
My pal, Mike Ritchey, now a student of writing at Portland State with his own fine blog entitled, Retirement for Dummies, reminded me that I should read more David Foster Wallace, whose brilliance scares me. Another pal, David Stevenson, recently recommended Denis Johnson's new novella, Train Dreams. Johnson scares me for a different reason. Wallace is out there, too smart, over my head. Johnson creates characters bad to the core, who make whack decisions at every turn, lowlife scoundrels doing deplorable things, and I'm sucked in with them, a partner in crime every time. I wondered if the local library might have the Wallace essays, so I logged onto their website to find out. No luck. I decided to check out the Hawaii Public Library system. They had it-- in Kindle format! I've just checked out my first virtual library book. What will become of brick-n-mortar libraries in the future? I really enjoy libraries, being in them, to read or to study. It's comforting to be surrounded, buffered, protected by all those books. Libraries are a refuge, an escape. They smell good. I love wandering aisles of authors, title after title, overwhelmed and consoled by too many books and not enough time to read them all. I hope there's a place for both the electronic and tactile, the virtual and real, forever into the future.
Some prospective buyers took a look and then a second at our cabin this week. That's good news, yet it dredged up all kinds of flotsam and jetsam in my turbulent, ever-conflicted brain. I'm just beginning to make some progress on the place. My awesome desk (it was Ron's, but now it's mine, all mine!) has been moved back into the office where it belongs. The kitchen table has been, in turn, retired from its desk duties and returned to the kitchen. A futon mattress is on order, so I will soon have a couch to sit on in front of a crackling fire. I've winterized all the windows. It's cozy. With the desk out of the back bedroom, I'm ready to rip the nasty, smelly carpeting out of there to reveal the pretty hardwood beneath. I've fixed the garage door opener and gotten a new remote, so I'm able to cruise in and out without having to get out of the car on cold mornings or frigid evenings. Civilized. The more I do around here, the less I swear at the place and the more I love it and wish I could keep it forever.
Last night, I was pulled over by a Gunnison city police officer, who wrote me a warning for a missing headlight and asked that I get it fixed in the next few days. He was a nice boy, very polite and respectful, and I thanked him for letting me know. I continued on to the gym. Little more than an hour later, less than a quarter mile from home, I was pulled over again, this time by a county sheriff's deputy. Same reason. I showed him the warning. Today, I spent part of my lunch hour at Napa, where I ran into an old friend who now works there. We exchanged hugs, caught up some and vowed to do more over a beer soon. It's a small world, a small town. This evening, I replaced the bulb and am shining brightly once again. What will the cops find to do tonight?
A hui hou. Aloha!
My pal, Mike Ritchey, now a student of writing at Portland State with his own fine blog entitled, Retirement for Dummies, reminded me that I should read more David Foster Wallace, whose brilliance scares me. Another pal, David Stevenson, recently recommended Denis Johnson's new novella, Train Dreams. Johnson scares me for a different reason. Wallace is out there, too smart, over my head. Johnson creates characters bad to the core, who make whack decisions at every turn, lowlife scoundrels doing deplorable things, and I'm sucked in with them, a partner in crime every time. I wondered if the local library might have the Wallace essays, so I logged onto their website to find out. No luck. I decided to check out the Hawaii Public Library system. They had it-- in Kindle format! I've just checked out my first virtual library book. What will become of brick-n-mortar libraries in the future? I really enjoy libraries, being in them, to read or to study. It's comforting to be surrounded, buffered, protected by all those books. Libraries are a refuge, an escape. They smell good. I love wandering aisles of authors, title after title, overwhelmed and consoled by too many books and not enough time to read them all. I hope there's a place for both the electronic and tactile, the virtual and real, forever into the future.
Some prospective buyers took a look and then a second at our cabin this week. That's good news, yet it dredged up all kinds of flotsam and jetsam in my turbulent, ever-conflicted brain. I'm just beginning to make some progress on the place. My awesome desk (it was Ron's, but now it's mine, all mine!) has been moved back into the office where it belongs. The kitchen table has been, in turn, retired from its desk duties and returned to the kitchen. A futon mattress is on order, so I will soon have a couch to sit on in front of a crackling fire. I've winterized all the windows. It's cozy. With the desk out of the back bedroom, I'm ready to rip the nasty, smelly carpeting out of there to reveal the pretty hardwood beneath. I've fixed the garage door opener and gotten a new remote, so I'm able to cruise in and out without having to get out of the car on cold mornings or frigid evenings. Civilized. The more I do around here, the less I swear at the place and the more I love it and wish I could keep it forever.
Last night, I was pulled over by a Gunnison city police officer, who wrote me a warning for a missing headlight and asked that I get it fixed in the next few days. He was a nice boy, very polite and respectful, and I thanked him for letting me know. I continued on to the gym. Little more than an hour later, less than a quarter mile from home, I was pulled over again, this time by a county sheriff's deputy. Same reason. I showed him the warning. Today, I spent part of my lunch hour at Napa, where I ran into an old friend who now works there. We exchanged hugs, caught up some and vowed to do more over a beer soon. It's a small world, a small town. This evening, I replaced the bulb and am shining brightly once again. What will the cops find to do tonight?
A hui hou. Aloha!
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