Stubborn

As much as I threaten to, I'm not giving up writing just yet. I've decided that either my biorhythms are out of whack or since the sun isn't giving off enough particles to make the northern lights this year I must need them to generate stories too. Or maybe something else science-y like that. I'm sure of it.

July 27--Rembrandt Harmensz. van Rijn, Portrait of Johannes Uyttenbogaert. Uncle John always looked like one of those black and white Capuchin monkeys to me. He had steady brown eyes, a round head, and that silly ruffled collar thing he wore for work looked like the ring of white hair the monkeys have too. He had long arms for his height and thin, nimble fingers that were good with the little tools and tiny parts of the watches he built at his bench. Even his loud but thin voice sounded to me like the calls of the Capuchins in the zoo. Once I slipped and called him Uncle Monkey to his face. He didn't like that. He gave all the rest of his nieces and nephews a silver coin that Easter. Somehow I got missed.

I like the feeling of this but don't see where it could go.
--Barbara