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The next lousy leader 0

Dear Bradshaw,

            I am right now drinking wine and… “Ah, ha!” you say. “Drinking wine, as always! Why don’t you tell me something new? I’m getting bored of your letters and reading about the same stuff every time. Next you’re going to tell me Jimi’s by your side, sleeping or pawing or gnawing your nipples.”

            Shaw, get a grip. You’re way ahead of yourself. Jimi is not here. She’s with Francesca and they’re on their way to the veterinarian where she (Jimi, not Francesca) will get some shots. I’m not sure what exactly the shots are for. I think they have something to do with anti-aging/Fountain of Youth kind of stuff or, if not that, then a truth serum to try and find out who’s been making long distance calls to Katmandu on our phone but, whatever the case, I assure you she’s okay and will return with all her fur and (hopefully) whiskers. I have opted not to join them and, instead, stayed home to write and that’s exactly what I’m doing = sitting on my couch, writing and drinking and… hold on a sec. I’m going to take another sip.

            I’ve recently read some good books but also some mediocre stuff that makes me wonder how it happens and where it comes from. Incredible, isn’t it? Seeds sprout and become sunflowers or poison ivy. Politically speaking, we have our president and the damage he’s done. How does it happen and where does it come from?

            Life flies by faster and faster and, like this bottle of wine, diminishes at every sip. I don’t know what’s going on and guess I never will. There are few seashells left at the beach, the air is becoming unbreathable, and the American Indians are all but extinct. Meanwhile, money is made of paper. Yet people are willing to kill and die for it.

            And then there’s the biggest mystery of all, the fact that, in spite of everything, I’m enjoying my life and taking it one day at a time. I listen to music, read, surround myself with pictures on the walls, write in my notebook and on my computer, play the harmonica, take long walks, love Francesca, joke with Jimi, drink wine, wonder about the world, wait for the president to be impeached, but then what? What happens at the end of every day? The sun goes down and along comes the next lousy leader.

            Speaking of leaders, I recently rerewatched Charlie Chaplin’s The Great Dictator. He should have just titled it: The Great Movie. We also saw (me for the first time) Fellini’s La Strada. Have you seen that heaven?

            So that’s it then. For whatever it’s worth. Time might have to sift through the marshland of mediocrity but at the far end of the distant shore there will always remain Hermann Hesse, Charles Dickens and Dostoyevsky, as well as Michelangelo, Pablo Picasso, Krishna and Lao Tzu.

            Gadzooks! I guess it’s that time once again = the end of another letter.

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