As this fall get's colder and darker, heading into the solstice, we have had some interesting visitors. Our friend, Emilia (Milo) Wint stayed for about a week in "the extra house" at the end of their mostly California walkabout. We've known Emilia her whole life and it was good to reconnect. They mentioned some writing classes that they were going to take upon returning home to Salt Lake. I had been casting about for a way to get started writing myself and especially, to encourage my compatriot in ageing and dear friend Robin to get back to writing, Emilia's choice for classes was an organization called River Writing, out of SLC, that has a two hour, get your feet wet, kind of session. The timing was right and I signed both Robin and myself up for the Zoom class. This time of year is perfect for learning a new indoor occupation. I was able to streak the words across the paper I borrowed from Susan and Bill, who happened into Gilman Brewing in Berkeley, just as the class was getting started. The whole experience was pretty surreal. The leader, Mary, read three difference poems as possible prompts for our writing. We would then write, without stopping for either 5 or 10 minutes and then take turns reading what we wrote.  I took the prompts as a sort of start to my stream-of-consciousness journaling. By the third promts, I felt like I was crafting a little bit as I wrote. The weak WIFI at the pub lead to the dreaded "Unstable Connection" in Zoom. I could hear well-enough though the other gals in the class, and it was all women of a certain age, couldn't hear what I read of my writing. there was to be no comment besides thanks so it didn't really matter. Mary insisted that I read anyway which was probably good. I thought it was therefore appropriate to copy down here my writing for the three prompts. I am editing only slightly as I go. First Prompt: Where I am From, by George Ella Lyon we wrote for 5 min I don't know where I'm from. I know where I am now...sort of. I have trouble remembering; that's why writing seems so important, that and creating the photo books. I haven't ever gotten much more that 3 months behind in adding the photos to the unlabeled books since my son was born more than 27 years ago.  So there's a contradiction. I remember a lot about my son. Sometime it seems like he's more on my mind than myself. (Before coming to this class) I was going to write about swimming alone, and maybe someday I will. Today I have to write about the wonder of a universe where my oldest CA friend walks into this pub with her husband Bill, where I have awkwardly installed myself for the class to deliver the paper I desperately needed to write these words. I saw hi first but he didn't make eye contact. I was so unexpectedly there. Second Prompt: Waiting by Leza Lowitz we wrote for 10 min My life doesn't go on in a messy way. It's often too organized and of my own organization. I am trained as a chemical engineer, but I should've been an industrial engineer, more concerned with the efficiency of systems. But if you're talking about too many messy dreams after going to bed? Maybe it's my subconscious responding to all that order, or maybe it's the Trazidone. I am a little lonely in all that daytime organization. Luckily, my organized existence has many interruptions. Travel interrupts....that's the point. It's always been such a refreshing interruption. Music and friends, especially some friends, are good at interrupting the organ.  All good. I've sort of hit a wall so I will continue with swimming alone. I swim in a lane in Petaluma, about 30mn drive from my house. It's a poor replacement for the comradery  of my team. I make up my own workouts with the clock. I watch the clouds during backstroke laps towards the sun. I enjoy Chelsea's ever-changing hair colors and her better than average music collection. A lot of old stuff for the old farts with the privilege of swimming in the middle of the work day. I emerge relaxed and energized to enable the return to the cold damp house in the shadow of Inverness ridge this time of year. I look forward to the solstice. Third Prompt: Revision by Maya Stein What if the narrative isn't the problem. What is that word, narrative? The rules you live by? the facts of survival?  The world goes around and around. The one thing for sure is the world becomes more unrecognizable as the days go by. The news in small doses is necessary for safety. My old home is becoming a bit scary. I have my lovely nirvana with the same old first world complaints. I am lonely but my narrative is what I choose to tell, my agenda is of my own making, I do feel loved, but I am greedy. I want more; isn't that the nature of reality? I ran out of paper.