Define love. in These titles mean nothing.

Here is the end of the last entry. Prosebox saved it for me. Good old Prosebox. Actually Prosebox is not old. It’s pretty new. I am grateful to it for being here. For giving me a place to write. A place to be varying degrees of public and foolish. Thank you Prosebox.

*
Wow. My computer is seriously screwed. I just minimized the screen so I could look at my photos to find a sidehill shot to grace this entry, and the whole bottom part of the desktop is missing too. I can’t get to any of those things. Only way I got back here is that I have a Firefox icon on the top part of the desktop so I could open a new browser window and Prosebox was kind enough to save what I had just been typing for me.

Guess my only hope is for Jim to figure out something on his computer that will fix mine. That or turning off the power and turning it back on and seeing if it’s magically fixed. I can move the updown right scroll button up and down and that takes me to the bottom of a screen that’s already open. That will allow me to save this. I hope.

That was wishful thinking. Now the scroll slide has disappeared and the save button is not visible.

Yup. I’m screwed. *

I wasn’t screwed. I just thought I was. Wistful thinking, I guess.

I only have a few minutes this morning. I opened Salter’s A Sport and a Pastime and read a bit. It was written before Light Years and the characters are younger - it happens in a shorter time, it’s in France, the man can’t admit he loves the girl. She is a girl. Not a woman. Salter is not kind to women. He is a man who values himself. He sees women as beauty and threat and pleasure and danger. This book is part of the grand theory that a woman who will fuck you is not worth your time. A woman who won’t fuck you of course is not worth your time either. So I guess women aren’t worth your time - yet they are so fascinating and you can’t leave them alone. I’ve always been able to read books written by men and see the man’s viewpoint. There is some man in me. I understand their vulnerability and their desire. I understand the wanting something right now and then after getting it not wanting it anymore.

So I went through my life from high school on being a fan of John Updike. I read his books. I followed him through life. I loved his words and I understood him as a man. He is dead. He died before I wrote him a letter. Salter is my new love. I should write him a letter while he is still alive. I should but I doubt very much that I will.

Have a good day, everyone. I’m off to make wiring harnesses for fire trucks.