a real book made of paper

I am sitting comfortably on a wire chair with my feet up, on  this beautiful morning, the fifteenth of August.  It's surprisingly cool, the morning, not the chair.  A few puffy clouds are in the sky.  I am not sure what I will do with the remainder of my life.  Will I get married?  Will I have children?  Will I have a home in the woods?  From where I am sitting on this porch, I can see a portable toilet.  It's so blue.  I has a white roof.  It is parked in front of a one-car garage.  It has a little black chimney.  There is a tall, old oak tree behind it, but I cannot tell you which specie of oak it is.  Is it a pin oak?  A white oak?  I don’t know my oaks.  I don’t know my pines either.  Donald Rumsfeld once said that there are known knowns, known unknowns, and unknown unknowns.  I wonder what the unknown unknowns of my life are.  It’s possible that I will become enthralled by a hat this afternoon.  It’s possible that this will be another ordinary day, one that I will not remember.

Jacob wrote to me the other day and told me that he wished he could have a collection of my essays, in book form, to have and to hold, a real book made of paper.  I would love that.  I have dreamed about that for a long time.  But will that book happen?  Is there a publisher out there who would want to publish a collection of lyrical essays about botany and the life of the self?  I have no idea.  I hardly know how I will spend the remainder of the morning.  This is only a note to say hello to the world.  Hello world whose trees I cannot identify on this surprisingly cool morning.  Hello portable toilet.  Hello vacuum cleaner sounds arising from the hospital.  My next objective is to make some toast and spread a bunch of peanut butter onto it.  Beyond that peanut butter toast, I have no idea.  I hope I do become enthralled by a hat, and I hope the hat is huge.