Stories
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Sophia worked for a heart surgeon out at the Presidio for a short time. She took up Hospice care visiting the dying, just as a service. She did not get paid. She may still do that. Said there were two guys in hospice that were dying of lung cancer from smoking. But everyday they spent all day in the smoking area smoking. Now that is hardcore, not these deathbed confession types, before they pass over who deny their existence. Like a movie I once saw where the hard-boiled killer was to be executed, and was going to his death unafraid and defiant, the tough guy that he was. However he, in the likes of Edward G. Robinson, was asked to fake a breakdown and act like a coward by Spenser Tracy or somebody, so as not to be a martyr to other young impressionable hard-boiled types. And of course he did which was the point of the movie.
But really what Sophia wanted to be was an editor. She may have edited some of my poetry, which I may have been writing when I met her. I think, although I may be wrong, that when I first met her I told her I was writing poetry. I think I remember her being impressed with that. I wrote poetry for a couple of years. It wasn't very good, more autobiographical akin to these stories, which maybe one of the reasons a lot of what I write here seems like I have written before. Or maybe I have. Who has time to look? Eventually poetry led to questions of a philosophical nature, and so I gave it up and began again to do philosophical analysis, which I did for many years.
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