Wednesdays of Hope

Consider this post a brief pit stop, an offering of a couple of instances where I’ve found hope this week.

Back in the ‘90s, sitting on the floor of a rave in Long Beach, my friend Carrie and I, age 17, decided we would be in touch with each other every Wednesday for the rest of our lives. We gave our new ritual a title: “Wednesdays of Hope.” We were also high on Ecstasy, BUT we managed to make every Wednesday a Wednesday of Hope for about thirty years. I mention this in my piece at Joyland, “With and Without Regard for Rhythm.”