Nevermind

I’ve really gone to seed since I moved to the country. For example:

·       Why get dressed? Where am I going?

·       Why spruce up? Who is going to see me?

·       Why bathe? Who is going to…never mind. 

I’m kidding about that last one. Mostly. A couple of other things have suffered along with my appearance—housekeeping and writing. So what AM I doing all day if I’m not grooming, scrubbing windows, or authoring the next best seller? I wish I knew, because I’m busy all day and go to bed tired. Maybe I’m being abducted by aliens for testing. That would explain…never mind.

I’ve told myself repeatedly that I’d get back on a schedule and write. That I’d get on a schedule and run the sweeper.  That I’d comb my hair at least once a day.

The fact that I’m not working a “real” job makes me think that I have all the time in the world, so instead of  wisely budgeting said commodity, I’m doing what I want to do when I want to do it while suffering a bad case of bed-head and wearing kitty cat pajamas.

This has got to stop.

Starting next week, I will dedicate a portion of every day to writing.

I know, I’ve said that before, but this time it’s really going to happen. And I really mean that. Mostly.

First, though, I’m going to take out the trash because it’s starting to smell. Wait a minute. Is that me?

Nevermind.

Whatta Doll!

            I just got my first pair of real glasses, prescription, no-line bifocals, and I can’t see a damn thing! Everything’s blurry. I feel like a bobble-head doll trying to find the right position.

My mind’s eye is blurry too. I wrote a scene where a boss and his employee were sitting together in front of the boss’s desk. I tried to see the scene, but it was blurry. I could see the arc of the top of his chair barely higher than the desk. There was a fuzzy picture frame on one side of the desk and a tall glass or vase on the other side. A pile of papers sat near the center, with a thick book beside it on the left. Small items crowed the vase. I was searching for something to tell the readers what this boss was like. The fact that there was no computer may say something. A small table sat in the corner of the room littered with nondescript mechanical parts. Leaning in the other corner was something tall: a pole, a board, a pipe? Beside it was a bucket of metal parts and a cardboard box, half full of something.

That’s probably enough for me to work with, if only I could position these damn glasses so I can see the computer screen and keyboard well enough to write it.

So until next time, this is Bobblehead Larry, over and out.

You want me to tour WHAT?

          I finally got a chance to meet Becky’s mother who Becky talks about all the time. So long before I ever met her mom, I referred to her as Mom, even though she is only a few years older than me. Most of Becky’s stories of home revolve around her mom and her brother, Eric. Becky seems to think Eric is the funny one, and she describes Mom as a “hoot.” And her mom truly is funny and fun to be around.

Becky and Mom drove the two hours to get here to tour, with me, the Decatur Sewage Treatment Plant. The fact that Mom would make the trip says a lot about her. Branson, Disney World, even the Lincoln Library are typical tourist destinations, but the Decatur treatment plant? Not so much.

It’s my experience that humor and intelligence go hand-in-hand—not always, but the funniest people are usually intelligent. A lot of funny people play the fool and being stupid isn’t easy. Trust me, I know. Mom took to the technical aspects of sewage treatment well; she asked impressive questions and took interest in almost all of it.

Mom would make a great character. She is a great character. She reminds me so much of a hilarious sitcom star, one which I choose not to name for fear she will take offence. (I’m afraid of Becky so I’m doubly afraid of Mom.) I’m pretty sure she’s a better shot than Becky, and she’s probably always packin.’ (I say all these positive things not only to stay on her good side but because they are true.)

With Mom being a hoot, Eric being the funny one (I have to take Becky’s word for that), and Becky’s droll humor, holidays at her house are probably a rousing good time. I wonder if they need someone to play the fool…

Creativity? Not even after chocolate...

Writing is easy. Changing a password is hard.

Creativity is inhibited by stress—so blogging right now? A challenge. I just spent ten fuming minutes changing a password for which the process included deciphering contorted green wording and retrieving a secretly coded text message from my phone like I’m a hot Russian spy with my own talk show.

Isn’t technology supposed to make things easier?

Although I did manage to change the password, I’ve fallen in to a dark, non-creative abyss. Even after helping myself to a Hershey bar, I’m still surrounded by darkness. Wait a minute…hang on…

Had chocolate in my eye.

Writing is easy, but good writing takes lots of practice, lots of study, and apparently lots meditation and yoga to keep the creativity flowing. So it’s back to the mat for me.

Hey, before you go, can anyone show me how to do the one-legged king pigeon? Never mind. Today I think I’ll just be happier with corpse pose.