someone told me that i really ought to quit making them cry with every post. maybe do something fun or normal or mundane, like just write about what i did today.
put antlers back on a moose.
watched the expression of a fly’s face as he tried to jump after i pulled his wings off.
started writing a book about how to write a book called “the mirror”
i reflected.
once in the mirror i didnt reflect..got scared. then realized it wasn’t a mirror.
did my geneology all the way back to patrick henry and patrick swayze and found a time travelor .
wondered if the dark knight should have an arch nemesis called the bright kday.
put a humidifier and a de humidifier in my room tonight just to see what might happen .
published this worthless piece of literature…but hey….nobody cried.
well….i did….just a bit.
lanny

The night air was heavy. You could barely see the street lamps, especially the ones 13 miles away. Just a few of the townsfolk were out that night, and those seemed to walk briskly toward their appointed destinations. And even though the small town had no sidewalks, you could hear the footsteps echo as though they were walking on hollow boards. By nine that evening it seemed like a ghost town and the wind whispered between the buildings of the main streets sounding like a demon in a Charles Schultz movie. One lone figure cast a shadow down 37th street. The shadow was clear even though there were no lights to cause it to exist. Had you been there, you would have recognized the outline of that shadow as a tall man, with a trench coat and hat, and as he moved you would have seen a slight limp as he favored his right leg. As he hobbled down the deserted barren street, he seemed to glide (with a limp like smoothness) as he turned and entered the only building whose lights were still on.
He immediately realized something wasn’t right. The room, although well lit by gas lanterns surrounding the room, was completely dark, except for where the light was. It reminded him of the church he grew up in. As he glanced at the floor he saw footprints. It had rained earlier that day, and the mud tracks were, from his experienced eyes, about a size 10 1/2 D. He followed the tracks across the living room, down a long narrow hallway, and into a dresser drawer. He cautiously opened the drawer. Two pair of socks, one black, one orange and gray striped. Underneath the socks next to two books, one by Tom Selleck and one by Franis Chan, was a macbook air. He spent most of the evening dog earing pages in the Selleck book and then picked up the computer. As he opened it, the eerie light from the screen showed the man’s tired green eyes. But those same green eyes, one red from lack of sleep and one that reminds you of sheepdog, opened wide as they read the screen content.
It was a note from a friend that said, “be sure, as you start your blog to “learn the rhythm of your audience.” Never post more than two serious ideas in a row. People want to laugh. He thought for a moment. “Maybe i should write a mysterious novel with no point whatsoever” Would people respond? Do they even care? What did he mean by ” the room reminded him of the church he grew up in”? Is this some kind of theological statement? Didn’t Charles Schultz write peanuts and Charlie Brown? What is going on here?
At that moment all the lights in the city came on …and it was completely dark.