I’m hollowed out. Like an old friend died, lost at sea. Finished the Travis McGee series by John D MacDonald last night. I’ve been living in Travis’ world for two years, slowly enjoying the adventure. I’ve never connected with a character like this before– it’s a goddamn bum out.

Would’ve liked one or two or twenty-one more novels, but JDM wrapped it up pretty well considering he didn’t know he’d be dead two years later. I hope the legend of book number twenty-two, Black, is true but I don’t think MacDonald finished it.

I fell asleep sad but satisfied. The great adventure is over, but it ended exactly how I want to remember McGee– on a leisure cruise aboard The Busted Flush, drink in hand, with a carefree woman.

Ryan and the boys came down from Utah to visit. We had dinner at mom’s and looked through family scrapbooks. There were tons of terrible hairstyles and bad clothes but the memory under mylar that won the night was a work of art Ryan made in first grade.

It’s a drawing of himself with (near as we can tell) what’s supposed to be a baseball bat in his hand. But the “bat” is between his legs and sticking straight out so it looks more like a huge boner. It felt good to laugh hard enough to hurt my face.

Raining all day again– love it. Editing video 3 of 4 in the Inktober series and my give-a-shit is starting to wane.

I think about Travis and Meyer and JDM. I think about Johnny Carson, Burt Reynolds and Robert Mitchum. I think about my Dad and Dale. The 1960s and 70s. The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows calls this feeling, Anemoia: Nostalgia for a time you’ve never known.

Really can’t muster a shit to give about anything today. Inexplicable melancholy is an odd ghost.

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