They say that time goes faster as you get older. It´s your perception of time, of course, and not time itself. I am not going into all the clichés about time fleeting and time dragging. That´s my introduction to a Christmas greeting, written in July several years ago. Take it from there, if you want to.
Terrible things have happened to asterisks. They used to be a typesetter´s joy, a hedgerow of discretion between the night before and the morning after in the days when romantic novels really were romances and not instruction manuals. This was an introduction to an essay I wrote about travelling alone. Do with it what you will.
Have a reason to get out of bed in the morning. That´s in the lead to an introduction to an excerpt I wrote about my investigation into life alone in a rooming house, published as a series in the Toronto Star. I called the essay Notes From an Old Lady´s Journal.. If you are getting on and live alone, you could write your own without any notes from me.
Creating my cover story for a sojourn in a Parkdale boading house in Toronto was like creating a character for a play. That was my second investigation, also for the Toronto Star. I called my first one The Old Lady Trip. This one I called The Psycho Trip. I guess I was thinking of a book, maybe the complete journal of the time while I was living it. I ended up writing a play, produced in Toronto by I forgot who, a small but respectable theatre, an obscure venue. This is probably too complicated for you to take it
The eyes of the world are looking over your shoulders, having seen what. you see, responded to what you respond to, praised what you praise. What is there left for me to say about Africa. I believe in unicorns.
There, that´s enough.
I apologize for missing hyphens and parentheses and question marks.. For some reason my laptop has skipped over to the Icelandic keyboard and you are not receiving what I ask for so I elliminated my requests.
Maybe tomorrow

I found a flle folder full of articles written by me. I think they, or most of their content, have surfaced in published pieces, books or essays or columns. This is pre-blog material, though I’m sure some of my blog pieces originated in them, or even in early diaries, when they were not such self-indulgent bleats. I don’t want to read them again. I know me pretty well by now. I suppose I can label them SAMPLES and let someone else worry about them, the space they occupy in what used to be indigenous territory.

Or else toss them?

This is the main reason my files are taking so long to cull. It’s the decisions. I can’t just dump everything in a box marked MISCELLANEOUS. I wish!

I hope I don’t lose this. It’s not deathless prose, but it’s time-consuming to correct all my typos and I’m hungry….

Maybe I should give you an opening line or subject just to show you how repetitive I am.

Tomorow. Sorry.