Today is not Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday.
His birthday was Wednesday, January 15 and he would have turned 91.
I don’t understand why we don’t celebrate him on his actual birthday.
I guess the long weekend is more important than his contribution and sacrifice.
This is a good essay:
The publication appears to now be defunct but I remember reading that years ago and it’s still relevant.
I donated to Bernie’s campaign (not because of that essay).
Don’t act surprised. You already knew I was a bleeding heart.
I could not love this more:
I want to read Travels with Charley again even though they say it isn’t true.
That Steinbeck mostly slept in hotel rooms instead of in his camper;
that he didn’t actually meet the people he said he met at the times he said he met them.
I don’t understand why we would be surprised by this.
Isn’t the nature of being a writer that you are fluent in the art of embellishment and humanity?
I’d like to see someone else carve out a slice of life and present it the way Steinbeck did.
I’m tired and it’s cold outside.
Max has a migraine.
I miss you.
I hope you are finding happiness.