I am a writer. Sometimes when I’m crazy out of my mind and feeling generous I post the special pretty things I write so one or two people will read them.

He lives alone in a place that translates to the view. The view behind his house isn’t so great, just some trees, dirt fields, flood plain, a single road stretching north to south like a thin white thread. But it is peaceful back there. No one who could spy in the windows late at night. In the mornings when the air is gold he makes breakfast and gazes out there and feels content.

For companions he has two cats, one almost seventeen years old, the other a kitty and only a year. Both black, but the oldest has a tuft of white fur on his chest, under his chin. Because of this hairy aberration, he often imagines the cat wearing a tuxedo. Both cats respond to a strange whistling sound he makes, and in this way they all communicate, and have an understanding.

In the fall of 2011 he was diagnosed with Ulcerative Colitis. A month later he was told he had Hashimoto’s disease, otherwise known as autoimmune thyroiditis. Those are his newest acquaintances. Some friends, like Depression, he’s known for many years—fifteen, just to put a number with it. He also deals with chronic jaw pain, but it’s not as bad as it used to be—Lora Zee’s a good friend, she keeps it under control, she makes him feel all right.

September 2014, he had a colectomy. The surgery lasted almost seven hours.

He writes these journals not because he cares what the responses will be, but because in a way this is all cathartic—a way of shaping pain, making it beautiful. He appreciates the small readership, and the comments even more. Hopefully what he writes here will be useful to someone, even in that most fleeting way we call enjoyment.

He is still trying to find and create the joy in his life. He supposes that is what this journal is all about.



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