  I have a new blog for writers like me, (writers who are not writers. ) and other people who think that maybe they could not write some day.
It was Reggie's idea, but he said that he did not want to participate because he is a writer, although he did give me a poem to share. A poem, by Reggie I d o n ot thi ink th atra tio give tyousz a pl enja wiild wil l be of ushgshe much in ter e st to me or my dhjdhd fo g. go c are aboue t so kjmoeone el se. d era M U L Y fjhfjbff A gi ve me a a c chan nece pl ea se stop ta xin wrfuh ta x t akjhxi ng ta xing mym min nd.
The End. There must have been a noise somewhere when he wrote it. I think that Reggie has an even harder time than I do thinking when there is a television in the room, or the next room, or somewhere in the house where it can be heard, and there is always a television on somewhere, usually in fairly close proximity, and if there's not a television then there is a radio, or an intercom, or somebody listening to a cd player with the sound up so high that a rythmic buzz resinates from his head, not his mouth, and rings in our ears even after he has left.
There's always a sound somewhere, and if its a pleasant sound, it's a pleasant sound that is covering up another sound, like perfume on an unbathed body.
The thinking sound -- the sound a mind makes when it has formed an idea of a concept of a thought -- has no greater might than the faint click of a seed falling from a wilting flower and hitting the ground. Because thought has so much competition, we think that several heads may be better than one. Hense, Bee House. Bee House, which I dedicated to the bees that are building the extra room on my house, is the new blog consisting of seven people who will dare to join. Also at blogspot. 
