Thursdays sit at the edge of things hoped for, even if it be merely a weekend.
Thursdays are the eve of things, dreadful or wonderful, that happen on Fridays. The Last Supper. Holy Thursday.
Oh, that every Thursday could be holy.
Here I sit on a Thursday. 58 degrees. High of 81 expected. Florida’s enigma variations of climate, mood, Gulf waters beyond the traffic, promising so much. But not superior to the world’s or the region’s anxiety. Or mine, however blue-green.
Domestic dilemmas. Without end. Palm fronds waving beyond the venetian blinds. God give me the courage to change the things I can.
The dogs are asleep. I wonder if they dream.
Novel. I write.
I falter on the steps, always sharing too much. People get too mixed up in my — domestic dilemmas. That’s my doing, or undoing.
None of this will make much sense to the chance visitor to this blog.
But I welcome you. And ask you to consider what Thursdays mean to you.
I will go out shortly, on errands, up and down the swarming roads.