My mother flew to Seattle this morning, en route to her Alaskan cruise. Today, I had the house to myself. I slept and went on Facebook.Â
Luckily, I left a message on Facebook telling anyone to scold me if they saw me online, and luckily Miguelina told me to get my ass off Facebook. She must be one good mother, because I listened. Thanks, Miguelina. I don’t want to use the internet as a crutch for real life. I do have friends in town and was going “to the city” tonight, but it started to rain and thunder like crazy, so I stayed home. I ran to the window to watch, like a cat jumping on the window ledge, because the weather is so rarely dramatic in Los Angeles.Â
The Queens neighborhood where my mother lives is a hodgepodge of every ethnic group imaginable. My apartment building has a large Jewish population. Our terrace looks out over a mosque, where some religious imman broadcasts his prayers. Guys speaking in Arabic ignore the guys speaking in Hebrew who ignore the guys speaking Chinese. When I mentioned this melting pot on Twitter, I naturally got the obvious response from the NPR crowd, “Oh, what lovely diversity!” It made me chuckle. I mean it is is cool, but hey — WHY aren’t you moving to this neighborhood?!” The place is overly chaotic, and small ethnic cafes are not the types of places you sit for two hours with your laptop and write your screenplay. This isn’t Starbucks country. I already showed you last time I was home how half of the stores on the street have been shut down by some greedy developer.Â
On the other hand, being in this neighborhood is great for story-telling. I do not have to go anywhere to find amusing stories to tell. I just have to go into the elevator. Now I know why New Yorkers seem funnier than Angelenos. The suburban atmosphere of Los Angeles allows you to get the hell away from other annoying people. In a dense urban area, you are stuck, especially if you live in an apartment building. You can’t hide in the car all the time. At some point, you have to get into the elevator with another person.
I rarely run into old friends in Los Angeles. It is too spread out.  Yesterday, I went downstairs to the supermarket (which by chance, is the most unorganized and poorly run supermarket ever created), to buy some ice cream. Some woman in her sixties came over to me and said, “Hello, Neil.” I recognized her, but from where… I wasn’t sure.Â
“Holy shit,” I said to myself. “It is Mrs. Weisselfeiffer, my KINDERGARTEN teacher!”Â
How the hell did she recognize me? Do all schoolteachers have memories that go back… decades? She is retired now and volunteers at a gift shop where the profits go to Cerebral Palsy.Â
“How are you doing” she asked.Â
“OK,” I lied.
Two days ago, I went into McDonald’s to “write.”  There is one right across the street.   I remember when they first built the McDonald’s, years ago when I was a child. There was a big outcry, much like people complain when Walmart comes to town. My apartment building and McDonald’s have an especially bad relationship. Our building even tried to stop them, saying it would bring a “bad element” into the neighborhood. I remember this being an uncomfortable conversation because this “bad element” was code for the black gang members from a nearby “welfare” housing project. The more liberal members of the apartment building’s “board of directors” did not want to be considered “racist,” even though they probably knew that the worrywarts were right — crime WOULD rise by having a 24-hour McDonald’s across the stree. In the past,  Jews who lived in the outer boroughs were always put in an awkward position. They tended to be the more liberal than the other “white” ethnic groups in the city, so when the city wanted to find a place for low-income housing, they built in a Jewish neighborhood. The city would never do this in a Irish or Italian neighborhood, because then there would ethnic warfare. The Jews kvetched and then moved to Florida.
Eventually, McDonald’s was built. Corporations always win. Sadly, crime did get worse, but never as bad as imagined. Even gang members just want to have their Big Macs when they come to McDonald’s. Or maybe they just get too tired to mug people after eating all those carbs.
The bigger problem was the traffic. Cars were whizzing all over the place and the annoying drive-in speakers were keeping people up at night. Our apartment building complained again. Finally Ronald McDonald sent a nice message back to us: “Fuck You.” McDonald’s did block their traffic from going onto our street, but they went much further in a passive-aggressive manner that even I was shocked about. They put a gate up around the whole block, only allowing access from the other side of the street, without even leaving an opening. Of course, the bus stop was outside McDonald’s, so residents of my apartment building now had to walk an extra block,  completely around the fence, just to get to the bus stop.
McDonald’s takes no prisoners.
Twenty years later, the fence is still there, but residents have accepted McDonald’s as a member of the community. At least, at McDonald’s, the signs are in English, and not in Russian, Chinese, Hebrew, or Arabic. In a funny way, the recent immigrants have helped bond the ethnic groups of my childhood. When I was a child, the fighting was always between whites, blacks, and Puerto Ricans. Jews were afraid of blacks. Blacks were pissed at Jews.
Now, these same three ethnic groups sit around McDonald’s together and talk about the old neighborhood — like old friends. They make fun of the real outsiders: the weirdly-dressed Indians and the Pakistanis.
“I bet you they are hiding Bin Ladin at the taxi service!” said the middle-aged black guy to the middle-aged Jewish guy, referring to the local “car service” located under the mosque.Â
My mother used this mysterious car service just this morning to go to Kennedy airport. A brand new limo pulled up, driven by a tall Arabic man with a long beard, wearing what looked like a white Nehru jacket. But they drive fast.
The only reason I go to this McDonald’s is because it is air-conditioned. It is the worst run fast-food restaurant I have ever seen. (Are you seeing a common threat about the local establishments here?) Has anyone learned customer service in the outer boroughs?
The staff is extremely show and uncaring. The manager, a short Indian woman, seems completely over her head. Even ordering a cup of coffee takes twenty minutes.
On Wednesday, I went into McDonald’s for a cup of coffee. It was my first time out of the house since coming here. I waited in line for ten minutes. The customers, mostly blue-collar workers, were getting angry. Some were even shouting.Â
“Let’s get this fucking line moving!” said one.Â
The guy in front of me was a thirty-something black man wearing a janitor’s outfit. He ordered a double cheeseburger, and gave the cashier, a gorgeous black high school student, a five dollar bill. You could tell that this girl thought Mickey D’s was beneath her, and that she would rather be modeling on TV. She gave the janitor twenty nickels for one of the dollars in his change.
“What the hell is this?” he asked.
“I have no more bills.”
“I don’t want twenty nickels.”
“Sorry.”
“Sorry? That’s not good enough. I’m the customer.”
“Please sir. People are waiting. Next!”
I was next, but I wasn’t sure what to do. This customer was looking so angry, I was concerned he might take out a gun.
“Hold on, my friend,” he said to me, addressing me like we were long-time buddies. “You know I’m right, don’t you?  I worked in Burger King for three years. I know I was only doing maintenance at the time, but I knew more than anyone who worked there. I know the policy. The customer is always right. Tell her!”
“Uh… he does have a point.” I muttered to the student/future model behind the counter. “Maybe someone else can give you a dollar bill.”
She scowled at me. I was regretting leaving the house.
“Let me speak to the manager!” shouted my new janitor friend. A hundred “fucks” and “shits” could be heard from everyone on line.
The short Indian manager woman came over. She looked scared and angry, but mostly resentful from being taken away from her job of running back and forth doing nothing.
“I would like to have a dollar bill and not twenty nickels,” demanded the janitor.
The manager did not like how she was being spoken to. She ignored him, turning to the cashier/model.
“What seems to be the problem, Nadine?”
“I don’t have any more bills.”
“I understand.”
She looked directly at the janitor.
“I’m sorry. She doesn’t have any more bills.  Next!”
I’ve seen where bosses try to support their employees, but this was insane. Why was she being so stubborn? Couldn’t she get some bills from another cashier? What type of McDonald’s was this? Did she not want to be seen as “giving in” to her customers? Is this the policy in Queens? No wonder why customer service is so lousy around her.
Soon, the janitor gave up.
“Bitch!” he screamed at the manager.Â
As I finally ordered my coffee, I saw him sitting at a table with two strangers, both women, telling them the story of the twenty nickels. He tried to ask them out on dates, and the women promply left to go to another table.
I began to wonder if I was missing the full story here.  As if, I had just started to watch “Lost” at episode six.
When I returned home, I noticed that another drama was brewing. There were notices in the lobby and in every elevator. My mother told me the story:
A tenant’s father died in the building. The tenant is Jewish. As is the tradition, after the funeral, the bereaved sits “shiva” for a week. Every religion must have something similar. You go over to the person’s house, bring some food, and give your condolences. When you live in an apartment building, you tend to visit even if you don’t know the person very well, just out of respect.Â
Anyway, apparently someone visited the bereaved man and notice that he was a bit of a pat rack. He had piles of old newspapers in the corner. This visitor gave her condolences, then promptly went down to the management office and told them that this “tenant’s house was filthy.” A few days later, his apartment was investigated.
Normally, after sitting shiva, the bereaved puts up notices in the lobby and elevators thanking their fellow residents for stopping in. I know when my father died, so many people came over that it made me feel like we were living in a community. We all come together when there is sadness.Â
This tenant put up his thank you notice. It had a twist.
“I would like to thank all my neighbors who came to visit me during my bereavement period. I appreciate all the kind things that you said, and the food that you brought me. You are very good neighbors. I especially want to thank the nice neighbor who went to the manager and said my apartment was dirty. You’re an asshole.”
I’m beginning to understand myself better by going back to my roots. People are crazy here!
It’s really raining hard now. I just took some photos from my terrace. It is Saturday night. My mood has become more melancholy.
A couple of nights ago, I wrote the following when I was feeling lonely. I didn’t want to publish it, thinking there was really no point to sharing it with you. But I’m actually feeling much better today. I finally spoke to Sophia on the phone. I told her the funny stories about the neighborhood. Tomorrow, I’m visiting a friend. I’m hoping to meet some bloggers while I am here. Maybe I’ll go to Cringe next month. I’ve always wanted to see that.
Oh, and if you are a mommyblogger who is celebrating father’s day with your husband — remember to treat him right tomorrow. You know what I mean.Â
Here’s what I wrote a few days ago. I’m doing it for Jane, who likes to hear about the soap opera —
My God. It’s going to be difficult to express how much I miss touching a woman. I know this sounds crazy. Of course, I’m talking about Sophia, but I’m also not talking about Sophia. We haven’t been all cuddly for a while, so I’m not sure where this is coming from. Please don’t go “aww” or “hugs.” I’m glad I left the house. I’m doing fine. I like being alone. I just didn’t expect this feeling of yearning to take hold of me in a mere three days of leaving. Are men really this weak? I’ve never had this feeling before. I find it interesting. I’m normally a “cold” personality, more sarcastic than wearing my heart on my sleeve. Lately, I’m experiencing those intense emotions you read about in poems in college — like the poetry of Yeats — the stuff I mocked as old-fashioned and melodramatic.
I can actually feel her arm, the way it is soft, and smell her one-of-a-kind scent from here.
This is not about sex. Even tough I am thinking of sexy things, too. Like feeling a woman’s nipple harden. Or kissing. Jesus. I need to just write this down.Â
I am having withdrawal symptoms.Â
Maybe I’ll take a shower. That will help. Or take a walk. Or go have a slice of pizza. On Twitter this morning, I wrote that I felt like a woman on PMS. But that isn’t accurate. My body is shaking inside. Have I always been so anxious? It feels as if I just went cold turkey off of some heavy narcotic I’ve been using for years.
I’m thinking of caressing my mother’s arm. This is creepy.
I know I shouldn’t publish this. There is no purpose to it. It is not entertaining.Â
If I do publish it, take it with a grain of salt. It is just a passing moment. I will better after my slice of pizza.Â
Why am I advertising my emotional connection to Sophia? How is this going to help me move on? Or get me a date? I am such an idiot, always doing the wrong thing.
Sigh. Sharing too much again.
Moral of post: Lately, I’ve been feeling such raw, intense emotions, like an internal f**king in the rain-soaked alley way of the soul, that all I can do is just stand back, watch, and admire it. And take notes.Â
I’m sorry this is such a long post. I’m sure I broke some blogging rule.
Saturday night’s alright for reading, too. I can picture the building you’re in as if I’ve been there.
Thanks for the father’s day gift tip. Heh.
There are no blogging rules for those who enjoy reading you so much, are they?
Real people, real stories, I love this post — as you knew I would.
Neil, maybe instead of a screenplay, you should consider a novel — which is more cathartic and flowing to write, and which can always be converted into a screenplay later. I read this
My God. It’s going to be difficult to express how much I miss touching a woman. I know this sounds crazy. Of course, I’m talking about Sophia, but I’m also not talking about Sophia.
and I thought what a perfect opening to a novel it would be.
I’m glad you’re getting out. Even annoying people and thunderstorms can be inspiring.
Neil,
This was amazing. Really. Don’t delete it. I love how all those tweets from the past few days have come together to tell your story.
(you’re welcome.)
I think this is the most “real” post I’ve ever read from you in the last couple of years.
Being alone lends more to discovery who you really are apart from someone else. And it’s eye-opening.
You’re beginning to reveal all those things about you that you have compartmentalized since the first time you and Sophia became one person.
It’s almost like remembering that you really don’t like going to flea markets but you went because it made another person happy. Or that you never allowed what you really thought about life in general because you knew the other person could not appreciate the sheer genius of your ponderings … so you put them away in a safe place.
I think this whatever it is, separating from Sophia has been a long time coming. And while you were scared about what was going to become of you, it’s only now are you beginning to see that had you let it go on you would have faded further in the background. Until you couldn’t see yourself at all.
we had that storm two nights ago, it was an amazing light show as well.
i thought this was brillant today, you’re expressing yourself with words others wouldn’t be able to. there is nothing wrong with being alone, you just need to learn how to feel comfortable about it and allow yourself to.
Yeats is one of my favorites:
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
In the movies, Neil, don’t the most dramatic scenes happens when there’s a heavy rainfall and/or a thunderstorm. You had a great backdrop for writing and your efforts paid off.
Keep the real Neil coming…
Good post, Neil. Better than good, really. I know you are a screenwriter but you really should do a book I think. I hear famous authors get laid quite a bit.
Oh yes, you need to correct where you put quarters for nickels in a few places. Don’t obsess over that though. Even the best writers have editors for a reason.
Thanks, TRO — fixed it!
I’m just glad you chose a McDonald’s instead of a Starbucks. That would be so chintzy. But not you, you’re down wit da hood!
Oh and finally, I can say: truth quotient — 100%
OK, more like 98%.
I LOVED this post–actually read big portions of it aloud to my husband, something I never do. When I came to the part where you said, “People are crazy here,” I thought, “No, people are TRUTHFUL, and not crazy at all. OK, maybe they all have tumors in the part of the brain responsible for impulse control, but hey, that can be a good thing, right?”
It’s like The Emperor’s New Clothes; the people in Queens are willing to tell it like it is.
Now imagine this–a suburban mommyblogger walks into the scene to get her kid lunch and is shocked to discover she’s being served an Unhappy Meal instead.
Every now and then someone writes an anti-immigration letter to the editor or spouts off in another forum about how the new immigrants are bad, not like the old (read “European”) immigrants that made America great. They go on and on about how those people embraced America, assimilated, defended it during WWII, blah, blah, blah. Anyone who has ever lived in NY or is the child or grandchild of European immigrants (like I am) can you tell what BS that is. How immigrants always had their own neighborhoods, how there’s a definite pecking order, and how assimilation is slow to come and never comes for some people. And they all defended the country because they, um, HAD TO. That was called the Draft. And it was good pay and non-union, right. Seemed a good deal at the time. ; )
I’m rambling, but you rambled first, so I’m allowed.
I was riveted the whole way through. It was the perfect length (that’s what she said…)
I so miss that torential weather. And despite the fact I am not a man, I understand that feeling. In the last month or so, I have felt that part of my body just longing for the scent and caress of a man.
I think rain is erotic anyway and that isn’t helping your cause!
I love hearing the stories about crazy people. I should go back to Texas for more visits and gather a few of my own. California gets kind of sterile because everyone is so laid back and comfortable. lol.
let me know how the “experiements” go. HUGS
Beautiful work, Neil. Here’s a quote: “Writers: when injured. they produce their best work.” –D. Hendrickson
That . should be a , — sorry!
Wow. I feel like I’ve been to New York for a day!
Whoa. This post is exactly why people keep coming back to read your writing.
Hey, welcome back to the East Coast.
As for missing cuddling, I’ve found that full-length body pillows work well.
Ah, what a terrific journey you’ve taken this reader on. From the MacDonald’s conundrums to missing a woman.
It’s funny about the closeness of the city, and how it just makes for great interactions and stories. It’s definitely missing here in L.A. (and I use it to describe the entire region of So Cal.). Though the weather is warm, often, the people are aloof and cool. Not necessarily a great place for gathering insight into the human condition.
Yup, get out and see your friends. I’m hanging up my blog to one post a week for all of July.
If there are rules — fuck ’em.
I thought I lived in a colourful community! I loved Flushing and Queens last time I was there. Been ages… ah well…
I feel physically disconnected when “my people” aren’t around. I miss their physical presence. I can’t imagine not having it.
well…now that’s more like it. loving neil!
Great post, long yes, but I stuck with you. You will grow Neil, you will get to the heart of things while you are alone, this will be so good for you :-).
Big HUG.
My best friend of 15 years, who has now decided not to be my best friend anymore, is from Forest Hills. He’s been here in CA since the mid 80’s and his grandma retired to FL. He used to tell me stories about Queens and related Seinfeld episodes to his own life. I miss that. I miss him. So it was nice to read your story, Neil. Made me remember all the weird NY stories Ross used to tell me.
I too think this is your best, most honest post. And I agree that maybe just as you’re more a New Yorkers than an Angeleno, perhaps prose is more your medium than screenplay. I kind think that everything in that last sentence I wrote is connected. I know that feeling of being an East Coaster having to fit in to the Los Angeles vibe. Talk about square pegs!
This post wasn’t too long…I never wanted it to end.
My bloggy crush just got a wee bit deeper.
(I hope you go to cringe…I’ve always wanted to go, too.)
Big points for missing the nipple hardening under your….
great and often overlooked detail.
wendy–
you are such a slut, and i’m such a nice grrrl. we should blog together. : )
This was a lovely post–I liked very much how you speak of touch and scent–I am very attuned to that
Relationships/love/sex trigger chemical reactions in our brains, so when you remove yourself from the source of those chemicals, you do go into a physical withdrawal. Hang in there and keep doing what you’re doing and the discomfort will fade with time. It sounds lame, but it’s true.
This is my favorite quote ever by Salinger from Catcher in the Rye:
“Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them – if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.”
The second I read to the bottom of this post I thought of this quote because you didn’t break some blogging rule, instead you did exactly what you should be doing so fuck everyone else and what everyone might say. You’re sharing how you feel and I bet you aren’t the first (as a matter of fact I KNOW you aren’t the first) or the last man to feel remotely weak or that sense of yearning.
I’m not going to offer you hugs or an aww, I’m just going to leave you with that thought and enjoy New York.
new york is truly a wonderful, crazy, fast, beautiful place. i admire new yorkers for speaking their minds, and doing it in a hurry.
on one of my visits, i began asking people on the subway why they live in new york and most everyone responded with “it’s the best city in the world”. that impressed me.
p.s. it was nice to learn more about your background, that’s good writing.
you might have broken some blogging rules, but feel free to break some more. if you can get such a great post out of mcdonald’s and memories, you are doing something right.
i don’t want to use the internet as a crutch for real life
like that ever stopped most of us.
Great post. Honest, real Neil is just as riveting as funny, stretch-the-truth Neil. Maybe more. God, Queens sounds depressing, especially with all the fab places you could take your computer in Manhattan or Brooklyn. On the other hand, you’re bound to get some great stories at that horrifying McDonald’s.
Blogging rules? Pah! Blogging hasn’t been around long enough to have anything so hoity-toity as rules.
Thank you for writing this. It’s wonderful, sincere, and important for the reader, as well as for you.
However.
You’ve invited your readers over to help sit shiva on your relationship. As one of them, I’m looking around, and noticing all the dust that’s been stirred up. May I dare to tell the super that you haven’t done much emotional housekeeping for a while?
Far too often, men outsource their emotional lives to women. Women are only too happy to take over, since they’re good at stuff like that. They tell their men how to feel, and when to feel it, and the men are grateful.
Does that describe your life with Sophia? Did you get a little emotionally lazy, Neilotschka? Did she tire of the burden?
Now, you have to deal with those feelings on your own. No taking-the-easy-way-out and making a sarcastic joke instead of honestly saying how you feel.
I read somewhere that the number one trait a woman desires in a man is a sense of humour. Why? Here’s my theory: it’s a strong, in-control masculine way of to reveal there’s a human being inside.
But if it becomes your ONLY way of dealing with emotions, one might doubt the qualities of the human which that brittle shell of humour protects.
You miss the touch of a woman? Good! That’s healthy. Touch tells us so much. It tells us we’re safe, loved, valued.
And you’re right, it’s not sexual. So it’s not creepy to want to caress your mother’s arm–would she not want to comfort you with a hug? Have you so sexualised all human closeness that you can’t find it anywhere else but in a relationship?
Can you find your old kindergarten teacher again? I bet she’d give you a hug. In fact, since you’re in your old neighbourhood, why not look up an old high-school buddy, go out for a beer, and when the time comes to go home, give him a hug. That works, too.
Here’s something interesting. Look at the comments so far. Most of those with male or neutral handles remark how interesting New York is. Most of the ones with female names are very, very supportive. Could it be that you have shown a side of your personality that’s attractive to women? They see a man who feels pain rather than numbing it in all those ways men are famous for. Perhaps it tells women that you are a man who is finally taking emotional responsibility for how he feels–and isn’t that sexy?
I’m a gay guy. We fagly sorts have no women around to act as emotional crutches. So, we become pretty self sufficient. Until they find out our Big Secret, women find this incredibly alluring. I’m fiftyish, with a distinguished looking beard and a bald head that is apparently the right shape to contain intelligence. Lemme tellya, I’m beating the middle-aged divorcees off with a stick! As opposed to beating the stick off with….um, let’s not go there.
Now, get busy, Neilotchka. You have some emotional house-cleaning to do. It’ll take time to clean up properly, and there’s no short-cut. But it’s worth it.
Love ya in a blokey kind of way, HB8
There are rules for blogging?
The McDonald’s story was interesting. Very much like the Wal-mart. Sounds like some pretty bad customer service.
I was going to write more, but then I figured I didn’t want to put that out on the internet.
I’ve been having a lot of intense emotions lately as well. I wish I were as brave as you to put them all in my blog. The thing is I’m too afraid of who will see them and what they will say. I’m afraid that would screw up my life more than its already screwed up. Thanks for having the courage to share yours and I hope that maybe I will gain it some day.
Lady Jaye — as we’ve seen from some of our friends, it is not always healthy putting everything on display for all to see. I don’t think I write anything here that is very shocking, since we all have felt it. If I was really doing something odd, like falling in love with a chicken, I probably wouldn’t write about it.
the tenant’s letter? PRICELESS. i love it.
Sometimes I worry about the length of my posts, but then why do we write? For ourselves? For others? I really enjoyed the pace, and I felt like I found pieces of myself along the way. That’s when I really enjoy any type of literature – be it a novel or a blog post… when I find simple human truths that I share with other people. It makes me feel not so alone.
I’m not sure if I like McDonald’s more or less after reading this? 🙂
I thought it was a great post. I came across your blog just a week or so ago, and am really enjoying it… Who cares about blogging rules? I get slagged off all the time for all sorts of things… Usually by people that don’t write and can’t spell.
I love the part about the change. There is a wannabe Bollywood actress working at a place I like to sit and write. She gives me nothing but rude looks and a lot of attitude. Next time, I may just pay her the 300 or so rupees for my beers by dumping a little sack of the smallest denomination change I can get my revenge plotting hands on all over the table…
But then perhaps the rifle toting doorman might have something to say about it…
thanks for you own true heart. there’s so little of that, or even of the clarity to be able to speak so truthfully… i think that this is what we are all responding to.
I don’t feel like reading the 9843 comments (I usually do)..I just wanted to say this is my favorite post of yours that I have ever read..I could almost smell NY just by reading this.
Thanks!!
First, I loved loved loved this post. And I’m sorry things are so rough and uncertain for you.
Second, because it’s all about me, isn’t it?, I cannot believe I’ve been so out of it lately that I didn’t even realize you were in NY. I was there this weekend – for that very storm you so eloquently described – and woudl have happily taken you out for a beer in which to drown your sorrows. Bummer!
My Google Reader just found room for one more.
Yep, nothing deep to say. I loved this too. Hope you’ll keep sharing the notes you take with us.
I like your emotional post. And there is a point to it.
I find that when I write my emotions down, it is as though I staple them into place, they become a part of time, concrete. It is easier to think about them and figure them out a little further.
Neil. Neil. Neil. Neil.