29 Sep

In the delusion of my imaginary life, I have friends.

Yesterday from dawn ‘til early morning light today, some old friends and I spent our time eating marvelous Italian food, drinking tons of red wine and espresso whilst passing around a joint or two (or three), and laughing. A lot. Of course. Mostly at the back-stories of a spent youth that slipped away without our noticing. We talked of books, especially the ones we could have written were it not for our complacency. And we walked along the ocean’s shore picking up sea-shells and smooth stones for the remembering. We are haughty writers in Dr. Zhivago mode, and make no excuse for it.

Now they have gone from whence they came, and I miss them already.



In The White Album, essays written by Joan Didion, a book I didn’t particularly care for but read anyway because, well it’s Joan Didion, she writes: “We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” This is the only truth and the only one that matters.


One Response to “JOURNAL ENTRY”

  1. Silvia Thomson September 29, 2014 at 8:59 p09 #


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