The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say. ~Anaïs Nin

This morning I write from my hotel room in a city so foreign to me that everything appears photoshopped when I watch it go by. Holy hell, how do people live in this town? It was a real experience to have and while I believe my bartender gave me doubles because of the red dress, I managed to very much enjoy the ride. Thankful of course to a very good friend who let me let loose while keeping me safe from slipping into sorority girl ‘woo woo’ oblivion and provided a nicely native chill vibe while my eyes popped at the surreal nature of it all. Driving in it looks fake. Hell it IS fake. Going inside you could live there for days and not see the light of day.

I don’t see Frank or Sammy or Dean in this town. I see Nic Cage in Leaving Las Vegas. To me this town reeks of sadness. People feebly reaching out in strange ways to connect yet where they are only fingertips and not full warm hands to clasp. Food that is good but that is so expensive there is no chance that the common citizen can enjoy. The American Taxpayer supported my habit and something feels funny…

But I found light in it all, even as I sit here quietly waiting for the sobriety to return. Waking up with a bit of tipsiness on the brain, lingering… I am old enough to know about drinking water all evening but was escapist enough to allow an amateur to over-whiskey the toddy pre-func. Oy. This town borderlines on tragedy and it gives me a deep and gorgeous love for home. My friends and my dog and my pillows and my kitchen and everything else that defines a sense of sanctuary for me.

To have such a blessing is quite remarkable.

To have been thrown roughly to the depths of destruction and survive. To be so tested in one year and to come out of it kicking and punching and laughing and singing and savoring every bite, every breath, every kiss, every word, every dream, every footstep. It is easy to get emotional. And so I do what I can to share of myself, of my heart, of my mind. I do what I can to express my gratitude, to live in the moment yet respect the experiences to come and all that has shaped me until today.

Can you see that there is still so much to be had? So much to drink in? So much to treasure? She told me once to make sure I am treasured. It makes me tremble.

I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all. ~Richard Wright, American Hunger, 1977


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