Houston? Houston? Do you read?
Okay. Maybe not Houston—my dad warned me to stay out of Texas (but I’ve been there anyway). Maybe . . . Phoenix? West Covina? Ellay? Teotihuacán?
Once again, just a dazed Chicanonaut in an old eccentric orbit, approaching . . . What is that planet? Could I have really lived there all my life?
There? Here?
No word on Zyx. Pancho is coming along. Other folks are getting back to me. Gads, I succeeded. I’m a writer. I got away with it
So, once again, I’m waiting. A writer ends up waiting on a lot of stuff. All the time.
The way to deal with it is to not, by any means, to sit around
waiting. Keep moving forward. Get distracted. Find something else to do.
Something else to think about. Maybe even write something.
I’ve become an expert at this. Or maybe it’s another aspect of the peculiar way I’m twisted.
Is this going to be a soft landing? A splashdown? A huge, smoking crater that was once a major metropolitan sprawl festering in the middle of the burning desert?
Meanwhile, some of the cacti are drying up while others are undergoing a bizarre resurrection . . .
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