It’s cold outside, a blue cold tinged with steel gray chiseled clouds. It’s time for a cup of coffee while planning what’s next. My grandson is off to classes and I have the house to myself, a quiet house where the only sound I hear is from the central heating as a fan forces a bit of artificial warmth into the house. Outside the temperature is -13 Celsius with a windchill approaching -20. A light snow is beginning to fall and I begin to think of my retreat to the Mayan Riviera for three months of the harsh prairie winters. I leave in about five weeks time with my wife, returning to our Mexican sanctuary where I have the freedom to be bare outdoors in a private, high-walled garden.
When my coffee is done, I will return to writing my current novel which is nearing the end of the first draft. Already I know that major revisions are needed. I approached this novel with no real plans other than to see where the words were trying to take me, what they were trying to tell me. Sixty thousand words finished and likely another five to ten thousand left to arrive at the destination of an ending of sorts.
And sitting in the background, patiently waiting for its turn, is a book of poetry.waiting for me to illustrate the collection of poems with images taken by myself and others.
This is my life.