In the old days, I would be writing right now. Never mind the time-- of course it’s late-- but it’s always late somewhere. I don’t have time to think about time right now.
Writing. I’ve written entire sentences about writing before, sometimes expanding the idea into whole paragraphs. Writing about writing. Am I easily amused, or what?
Or What!
While I am easily amused, there’s more to it than that. I started this writing business a couple of years ago, but in the beginning it was quite crude. Eventually I evolved my style until it was flowery and colorful, but those flowery, colorful paragraphs were so heavy with fruity words and clever phrases that there was no way to ingest any of it without getting nauseous.
”Lo! Howfor dost thou do it?”
Verily, my attempts at copying Sir Francis Bacon’s writing style were comical, and while they were written as comedy, who knew? Those who could stomach the mess would come back to complain of indigestion, their guts writhing in dismay as they shat out what I’d written in dark fuming piles, excrement, all.
So it was that I turned my writing into a lot of embarrassing fluff. As the mountains and streams were swept with the shady shadows of implied poetry and art, my world was written out and crayoned in like an after-school special in hopelessly pointless ridiculousity. Now what?
Now... What!
But it is late. Will this collection of words be accepted by a reader as being profound and important?
There is further ado, which is left out by many writers for some reason. Without further ado, what would I do here? If not for further ado, this whole thing would have ended after the intro. Is ado a bad thing, after all?
I always wanted to write a book like The Brothers Karamazov but I asked my brothers, and they begged me not to include them in it. Now what?
I even tried some Shakespearian chitter-chatter at one point, but again the Bacon was hard on the innards. Flatulated, ah, but with a sliver of a smile, those melancholy days eventually cleared the room, leaving me again wallowing in a deep mess of ink and pencil shavings-- but still no words.
How Much ADO Do You Have Crammed In There?
Hark! Do I hear the sound of a closing paragraph, an end to our woes? Upon my soul, I believe we are reaching the point where I begin digging through my photos, looking for an image to save the day, an image worth a thousand fluffy words, brimming with the damned things.
It’s true. I’ve found a photo or two, so that this chore of words can be taken over by the eye, so that I can get back to the moment at hand. In the old days, I would be writing right now. Today though, there’s a piano near, and even the neighbor’s flowers have turned their smiles towards me, so that the best way to resolve this writing problem might be to switch to piano for the day, and wrap this up with a quote:
Sunny, yesterday my life was filled with rain
Sunny, you smiled at me and really eased the pain
The dark days are gone, and the bright days are here
My Sunny one shines so sincere
Sunny one so true, I love you -Bobby Hebb
that’s it, all of the words. Photo above is mine, 2018, and if you plant sunflowers in your garden, bear in mind that they tend to look to the East. Thanks for looking in!
