Cloud Nine

13 May

There’s a fantasy I have of living in Ventura. I’ve spent some afternoons and evenings there – it reminds me of a northeastern town set down by the sea. Brick buildings on Main Street. The beach within walking distance of the town center. Green hills with white Mexican casitas overlooking the town.

I fantasize moving there to a one-bedroom apartment, something cheap and nondescript given over to writing. I’d have a sofa bed for Devon. I’d write in the mornings, body surf in the afternoons, write again in the evenings, try to eat right and keep the booze to a minimum. Be ready for all the meetings that might crop up at a minute’s notice. The ideal would be to make enough money to buy a casita on the hill.

With real money in the bank, Ann might feel secure enough to make the jump – although maybe she never will. I know Devon would love it.


Staying in New Jersey – the way I feel now – will always be tainted with failure.

If I fail as a writer, I think I would rather do something drastic, like move to the Dominican Republic and open up a bar.

Learn Spanish.

Learn dominos.

Appreciate beauty.



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