About Nothing At All

I will go to Denver and enjoy myself. Both going and there. Moment. Moment. Moment.  I will. I will it?

Just finished reading a c, 1955-ish British detective novel. French seaside-ish escapade involving the bright young things (most of whom are not young. The novel feeds on international drug rings, post-World-War II. Families. Normalcy. Not normalcy. Drugs. Etc)  A tale centered on a cult. [Sexual, no less And thus even more off, given the decade.] French accents and illuminated goats. Delightful! 

Anyway: I've launch a one-woman cult. Le cult de sociabilitiee.

To Denver I will travel (by train, insists the great goddessgodhead of this cult) (whose inner workings I do not yet understand. It's all a gag, you know?).

Both the going and doing, I shall enjoy. (And, even, I promise, even the return. Which does not yet bear pondering. My cult handles only so much at once. Please!) Enjoy and rejoice and talk to others.

And celebrate that there's anyone, anywhere! with whom to talk.

Because that ain't nuthin', people. It ain't nothing.

A pox on the dystopian fervor that, these days, taints damn near everything.

Move on, people! The late summer and early autumn sunsets are still pinkish golden blue. Days shift from light to dark and so we all wake another day and . . .  move toward joy. So I hope.

To Denver I go. Train travel! Signing books. Talking (the tough part). Eating. Drinking. Etc. There's a conifer collection in Denver! Did you know? I want to see that, too.  'Afore that train moves on.

I will travel. I will celebrate the pinkish golden sky.