Those are the token windmills erected by the good people of, I'm guessing here, The Glistening Borgata (on right) and other new casinos nearby to compensate for the immense drain on the electrical grid they create here on the north end of what were the AC salt marshes, the "livers" of the planet,

think about it, and are now a Gambler's Paradise! The other pic is the view from my kitchen table and I love it.

Well, it's raining outside my little beach house. I guess the sun can't shine forever. April showers and all that (in March?). So if the journey, for the moment, consists of short trips off island to, say, Salvation Army in Atlantic City for a frying pan or a decent sweatshirt (later today), or an Absecon health food store for short grain brown rice (a hellish experience last Wed. through some torturer's idea of suburbia) -- and, by the way, how did I find myself on an island again? Just like in 1994 in Maine? -- then I guess I'll write about shorts trips to the mainland, observations on the proximate gambling economy, internet journeys as I beg literary agents to find me a publisher, and the "inner journey" of deciding what I really want now -- now that I am free to choose where I want to be and what I want to do there. Do come along, as I will more than likely need an abundance of moral support. And feel free to advise or comment below any time. Greetings to those who have recently found me.

To be honest, it's the hunt for an agent I dread -- the part of 'artistry' I've always detested. Nothin will make you feel more like a pimped out hooker like trying to market your own creations in the abstract. A painter can sell her paintings: "Here, these are my paintings. Do you like them?" A songwriter lays out cds in a bar. But to have to contact someone via email, I mean that just screams lameness to begin with, don't you think? and sell your idea before they can actually read it, in order to convince them they want to read it? Does this not strike you as absurd? Who the hell am I? Sol Hurok? I mean, that's what the agent's for. Joni's words are appropriate here (when are they not?): "And ask some guy to circulate your soul around". OK. OK. But I don't know how successful people do it. I can work like a dog, finsh any project you give me and on time. But selling someone on a concept with wordsmithing? Arrgh.

However... cowardice is no longer an option as I so firmly believe in my story and my characters, it is now they (rather than my seething fury at the culture I'm living in, and "they" are far more charming) who stand over me and threaten the unthinkable if I fail to find them a literary home. So, yeah, today I'll sail on over in my battered volvo to see what the old beat up part of Atlantic City has to offer in the area of second hand pots and pans, custard cups for creme caramel -- an essential food IMHO -- and other junk. maybe even a good Italian deli and a slice of decent NY cheesecake. I mean, it is Jersey for Pete's sake. This should be easy!

Will miss walking the endless, sand duned beach here today (walked nearly 6 miles of it yesterday and my butt is feeling it) as it's raining and I'm a wimp. I am trying to get my legs to lose that frighteningly saggy look my mother's had (and she had nice gams) at 80. There is NO one on the beach yet. We basically own it. Miles of white sand, grassy dunes, tinkle shells, skittering birdlife, and room to dream big. The north end goes on forever into a state park, no houses. Will post pics whenever the rain stops. Let's go make some coffee.