The news of a far away post-truth America, shafts of sunlight, and the big woody leaves of the Terminalia fall like books from library shelves and interrupt my writing.
Crying neighborhood babies, laughing drunkards, birdsong of many bird species, loud streets of marching bands, church music, motorcycles and horns interrupt my writing. I welcome all the interruption. Interruption belongs in the writing. My feeling is that it is a kind of celebration of wildness this morning, to allow interruption, chaos and reality to dance together while I am writing. Birds and babies and presidents will continue as I write. I let them.