Some Things But Mostly Nothing

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.

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