Alone

Time keeps on slipping into the future..
The ache of loneliness is real. It barnacles onto you. It can sit there for a long time, while you maintain your life above the depths. You don't have to be living, really. Existing above the depths is enough, a creosote covered pylon, resisting the waves while slowly being encrusted in the seagull shit of daily existence. The tides come in and go out. Eventually things shift. I don't know if it's the muck into which we have been driven which erodes or loosens or something else, but we end up under the brine, or at least the parts of us with encrusted barnacles. The little bastards start sticking their tongues out, filter feeding on the emptiness we had kept dry, but in which we now swim. 

I'm really feeling it today, and am grateful I am with Leiney and soon Abby, who are lighthouses when the darkness descends. 

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I am so obnoxiously self-absorbed that I must admit that I did not understand how Abby's current

New London, 2025.
academic exercise is so impressive. (My kids are geniuses. Leiney graduates with a 3.999 from the UW, I learned after careful questioning today.)  Abby is at the the National Theater Institute--The Eugene O'Neill Theater Complex-- which birthed the careers of, among others, Meryl Streep, August Wilson, Jim Henson, and Lin Manuel Miranda. It's a tiny place, not in New London, but Waterford, which is like saying I live in Burien, but actually it's Boulevard Park. Ok, bad analogy, this place is on the banks of the Thames River (Why New London but not New Thames?) and is about six very old buildings. Eugene O'Neills residence, now a museum is nearby I understand. 

Tonight Abby performs for us, and again tomorrow. I view her tuition for the semester, which I paid for (not part of the MH scholarship, sadly) as 4 $6500 tickets for Leiney and I. I hope there is popcorn.

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