
Dawns can be just this way if we give them a chance. I haven't seen a dawn of any variety since well before we moved to Blakeney. Not that I haven't been up before dawn. That happens nearly every day. But I don't leave the house. I make coffee and sit down to write. I'm made for writing and photographing. My knees have made photographing difficult enough for me to be happy sitting with a tin mug of coffee and writing for a while. I'm good for the right word at the right time in the right place and the right way. It's my shtick. But spelling is not. Nor are numbers. So, I don't get far away from being at home with my coffee and my shtick. Looking forward to being bald. To be bald, I'm going to have to outlive my wife. Until then, I'll be happy imagining being bald. Being bald, for me, is a defiant protest, renunciation, rejection, repudiation, renouncement, and abrogation of the ways things are being done everywhere I look. Being bald, for me, is immolation on the order of Buddhist monks in Vietnam, only I get to keep breathing and enjoying my putdown of what it's all come to. Protest is all that is left to us. That and the power to put things right insofar as we are able by doing small things like choosing the right word and using it at the right time, in the right place and the right way, while enjoying our coffee and our shtick. So, if you shave your head before me, know that I'm coming along and will get there as I am able.
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