There maybe something within me that wants to come out, but I’m not sure of my capabilities or my interest in that mode of expression. I have written for some classes in “writing” in the past, but never with the notion of not using time to think. I always needed preparation (in my mind) before putting anything down on paper. I used to think that I didn’t do well on tests because I took very little to think — just started to write. It is overwhelming to think that a story or poem, or an essay might be lurking below my conscious thought and so far I might yet be able to grab it and bring it out me.

Sadness is usually a “lost” feeling. Losing someone you know; your favorite team losing a game; having a favorite book disappear; finding you have a hole in your pocket and           your coins have disappeared. Of course, every loss is measurably different in the feeling it brings forth, but all losses (if they remain as lost) will always bring back sad memories in the future doodlings that will never become completely out-of-mind. That is not to say, that those coins that slipped thru the hole in your pocket will forever be as important as the death, for instance of a livelong friend, but the loss of the coins may remind you to check your “coin pocket” when you change to another pair of trousers.

My wife, my love, my helpmate for almost a half a century is my main example of “care for” or love. It is almost an effort to remember what my life was before I met her, and we both know everything after was better. She has been with me, and for me, every step of our way since the time we first met. I would not know, or care to know, or want to know, a world without her by my side.

I can usually write, but not to often on the spur of the moment. Writing does to seem to flow once I get started and sometimes it make sense, and sometimes it is humorous, at least in my idea of humor. I love to read and I do think I envy the author whose works I enjoy. An English teacher, who had been a friend of ours, read some of my writings and then, hesitatingly said, “Well, I do think you might have a bit of talent, but ———-” What a jerk I was to let her opinions matter to me, when I think of it now. I know of no works that she ever published.

As we grew older, the younger fears were conquered, but, then, new fears came forward. A new school, new teachers, new fellow students. All were terrifying, but, then, again, easily conquered. New fears came about, being called on in class: Would you make a fool of yourself with your answers? Would you finally make new friends?   Did you study enough of the homework assignment? What kind of test will they give? What will the first report card show?

Actually, when you think of it, it seems that fears can be productive, as it makes the brain juices flow toward the ends desired.

I used to play “marbles” when we moved to Chicago and I was about 8 years old. I learned to shoot with (or against) the neighbor boys. When my father found out about the games we were playing, he brought home to me some beautiful agates. I didn’t know it at the time, but these were very expensive marbles and should never have been given to a young and allow him to take them outside.   When I say “expensive’, I mean that we could buy about five playing marbles for a penny. The agates my father brought home to me were probably ten cents a piece. Talk about the good old days! Naturally, I lost them all in a very short time and was never given a gift like that again. My cousin, whose family and mine lived together in the same apartment, had better luck and was almost always a winner. But he never was able to find the guys who won my marbles.

I am a Queezor. I spell it this way because, in my original language, it would sound like a buzz-saw getting started. My home planet is in galaxy so fare away, the light from this galaxy has not yet arrived at Earth. I got here by going into a dimension that was being shut down for repairs, but the dimension workers hand not gotten around to put up the “keep out” cones.

My fur is silky and I can keep my size small enough to make me seem cuddly and cute. This helps in getting food when I need it without having to work hard for it.

I found out that I can read human minds, and, when I allowed the nice couple to take me to their home, I knew what they could offer to a Queezor that would make my life interesting and easy to get along.

As soon as I get really settled in, I’ll start looking for the door to the fixed (I hope) dimension door, so I can get back to my home planet. Maybe, if things go well in this dimension, I might go back and bring another Queezor back with me. This does look like a good neighborhood to bring up children.

What if existence, as we know it, is nothing more than a dream of an unknowable intellectual entity? If so, that dream must be mostly a nightmare.

Are there concepts in philosophy that actually prove the existence of good and evil?

So what if the scientist do prove that the universe will continue to expand forever?

Did you ever wake up wondering who you are? Did it help when you finally identified yourself?

Are there knowledgeable people who are so adventurous that, if they had the chance, they would welcome going back in time to change their lives as it actually turned out?

Do the “Native Americans” have bitter feelings about the Buffalo Nickel and/or the Indian Penny?

There must be a point where I can realize my limits but know that I have done my best. But, still, I can use what I do have and be proud of what has been preserved in that what makes me “me”.