At the moment, one of my desktops (thanks Mac OS X Spaces) displays no fewer than eight open Text Edit documents. They have names like "Hummer Limo", and "Chabon Chalet". But as May (Gray) sneaks into June (Gloom), I haven't sent out the batch of submissions I promised myself I would. Instead I just got older. Twenty-five cent piece old. Third-life crisis old.
I'd have preferred a more meaningful May. Instead I seem to be blithely preparing for some apocalypse, jamming my freezer full of gallon bags of strawberries, peaches, blueberries, mangos. It turns out you can freeze grapes, to no ill effect.
At the moment I am listening to people screaming on the roller coaster, and thinking that I have heard thousands of them being dragged to the summit and released onto the track, wooden planks shuddering a harmony to hold up the human voices, but none ever emerges as unique.
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