I got nothing to say, except to say “How’s the wife been?”
I’m staring at a blank screen, and not giving up on today’s post! First, I want to thank all of you for becoming daily (or near daily readers). For a first-week blogger, I’m quite happy for the 83 person daily average. I’m amazed people actually come to read the silly things I type. You’ve made writing a truly pleasurable experience.
Today is Sunday, and like most Sundays my mind is full of twigs and sticks and bird droppings: you’d never believe anything good could possibly happen in there, but allow stuff to incubate and you have either a few fledgling birds, or a reputedly delicious Asian soup. Such is my brain.
Some people are good at pouring a variety of noises, shapes, odors and other stimuli through their minds and focusing well enough to accomplish the task at hand. I’m not that kind of person. If I were a filter, I try to catch everything. I stop what I’m doing to hear the sound of the moment. It’s as if my mind doesn’t have a prioritizer. Each moment of stimulus is treated with equal importance, packed away in my memory for future use, and all the while stalling the project at hand. I am acknowledging, I suppose, the reason I’ve written over 200 words and I’ve managed about 2 words per minute.
If I ran the world (God save us all from that day) I’d have a quiet room, just for me, to issue my edicts and write my memoirs. And to read novels, of course. I’d plant a flag there and blog the hell out of the place! I choose the Sierra Nevadas, north of the Mojave Desert somewhere for my Den of Writing.
Really, I shouldn’t be wasting your time, so I’ll just leave you with a thought I just had: if fornication is bad, wouldn’t five-nication be even worse?
“You know you’re not a kid anymore when you count your spaghetti.”–Alex.