Mental improv

During my post-breakfast coffee/jazz cruise this morning, with cold and windy weather outside the car, I began fantasizing about living someplace warm. No way this will happen unless 1. I divorce my wife, who is settled here, which isn't going to happen, or 2. I outlive her, which is unlikely. But if the accident of the latter happens, I'm out of here as soon as I can practically manage it. I'll either move to a very small town in the desert of the southwest or wide open spaces of west Texas, or live in a van and move with the sun, driving as little as possible and staying in semi-primitive campsites as long as possible (with the dog, of course). I'll spend my days reading and writing non-commercial posthumous literature. But this is unlikely. I'll be here, as I've been here for decades, constantly complaining about the weather and about how cool Portland was in the late 70s and 80s, laying low and trying to mind my own business as much as possible, which isn't always easy with liars for mayors and artistic hype rising off the wet streets like hot air. Yes, I really should be tucked away in the desert somewhere, where I'm not surrounded by ghosts.

A note from JD, the playwright/actor whose short scripts I'm shooting on video, suggests a great way to set one of his stories, something that hadn't occurred to me. Definitely going to explore this -- and I mean today. I mean right now. Bye.