Good Company

I talk to myself. A lot. I don’t know if it has to do with being a writer and spending a lot of time alone or a function of getting older, although I’ve talked to myself for as long as I can remember. Yesterday on my walk, I became aware I was talking to myself when I looked up and saw a guy sitting on his porch, cutting his eyes toward me. I knew what he was thinking, "Is he schizophrenic, maybe a little dangerous or just some old fella losing it?" So I called to him and waved, maybe a little too enthusiastically. He hesitantly waved back. Ah well, I have to say that me and myself have some pretty great conversations and on occasion crack each other up. (Unearthly photo by Ruth taken from her apartment balcony in Salt Lake the other day.)