Do You Know Where You Would Like To Be?

In your life?  Do you have a plan? A wish? A scenario?

Sometimes I do, sometimes I have no idea, but right now I would like to be floating in the stars listening to Arthur C. Clarke.

My Friend Tara Zucker

Tara is a multi-talented writer here in Los Angeles.

She works hard, and gets tired and depressed, not unlike most good writers.

BUT, if you Google her name, on the first page there is a Dr. Tara Zucker, psychiatrist, in Beverly Hills.

Oh, no.

Can she possibly have cloned herself?

I worry.

Palm Sunday

Yesterday, after all of the weather predictions of thunder and lightning, big storm coming, we shut down windows, got extra blankets for us, and had the two space heaters positioned at head and feet.

Today, the sun is shining, and the wind is cold. Schizophrenic, as always.

We had morning coffee, and went about the business of folding up all of the blankets, feeding the crew, the usual.

Hauled the metal table and chairs out to the front, for anyone to take.  We were offered money for them, but it is Palm Sunday.  Pass it forward.

Then the wide-eyed frozen ‘what to do next’ moment.

Tomas decides to clear off the unwatched TiVo, and, in the spirit of Palm Sunday, we think it might be relaxing to lie on the floor in the cold bedroom  and watch a show. We get as comfortable as possible, then decide on a new experience.  Let’s watch “Dexter!”

It may seem sick and twisted, but think about it - a show about a former serial killer now stalking and killing active serial killers.

Isn’t this break appropriate on Palm Sunday?  Meticulous righting of wrongs, careful planning, for justice?

I am not sure, but it feels okay.

At least for now.

Who Killed Peter Jennings?

This question comes into my mind when I have a moment of stillness, the physical and mental challenges have exhausted themselves, and I am just breathing, staring at nothing.

I know, I know, the reports are the cigarettes, the lung cancer, I read all of it, and the aftertaste of artificial reporting sticks onto my tongue every time.

Peter Jennings was asking the questions after September 11th that no other reporter would touch, he was not racing into the inferno of on-screen hysteria, he was shooting thoughtful questions straight into the black hole.

Then - my goodness, the timing! - he dies of lung cancer.

I will never believe the “official” cause of death. I believe he was silenced, and there are always the usual suspects, but they do not matter. Their time will come.

I have one truth. One emotion. Just one.

I miss Peter Jennings.