Writing Only Because it’s Wednesday

I’m tired of complaining.  It seems that’s all I do.  As such, I’m glossing over whatever contemporary complaints fill my foremind and will instead focus on the bits of enjoyable fortune I’ve encountered recently.

Can’t readily think of what they might be, so bear with me as the post lumbers into first gear.

I’m still blocked, still drawing words like pulling teeth, so what comes is doing so fitfully.  This is not a complaint, merely an assessment in a very complainy sort of fashion.

I’m not sure how to quantify my feelings in the first place, so taking what little I understand of myself and trying to flesh it out into a post worth reading is fairly difficult.

First bit of good luck, the gaggling school children whose sharp blather cuts right through my headphones just left en masse, so at least I’ve got my head to myself again.  One of the many side effects of the inhaled steroid I’ve been charged with huffing for times a day is a massive increase to the sensitivities of both my hearing and sense of smell.  I suppose nigh super human acuity of senses is sort of a good thing.  I can hear Mary run water on the third floor when I’m in the kitchen on the first.  I can hear truck transmissions struggling in the next county.  I can smell yesterday’s cooking before I get my key in the gate.  No sign of Scott Glenn, though.  I’d settle for Terence Stamp.

No sooner do I count the departure of children among my fortunes than a new noise comes to take their place.  These elderly aren’t so sharp, their voices more like a bludgeon than a blade.  I’m worried I’m going to ruin my new hearing with the volume control on my phone.

Still not a complaint, two juxtaposed statements leading you to infer my displeasure.  I made you the one guilty of grumpiness while I’m off the hook.

My keyboard is looking more and more like a mid-70s CIA torture device.

I think the problem, here, is that you must have an interest in your subject to tell its story well and I’ll I’ve got to do is to talk about myself, a being I’ve so completely and obviously inhabited such for me to have lost all interest in discussing anything about.  Nothing I’ve done is new to me, and the life lived in between great events is what films and books most often glaze over, the in-between that  glues the rest of the points together, the tether, while necessary is like the tendon in a game shank, it’s no one’s favorite part.

Maybe the mood will hit me differently tomorrow or thereafter.

 

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