Sunday, September 25, 2005
Sunday Sept. 25, 2005 - Year 3, Day 188 - 4 eggs, 4 strips
+2C, spectacular blue sky day unfolds again, light breeze – brisk walk/jog, my sleeping snoring furry footrest companion romping frenetically just minutes ago
no clue what to write
landscape description is easy – drying dying dead & shriveled evidence of another growing season tremble, then fall in the breeze to carpet the ground, earth to earth, dust to dust as they have for millennia upon millennia
inside – laundry basket overflows, sink full of dishes await dishwasher unload, desk piled high . . dining room table laden with newspaper - my Sunday New York Times actually arrived on Sunday - reading glasses & brimming coffee cup
description of thoughts, ideas & feelings challenges me more
sitting back, savoring coffee, watching the day go by out my window – thinking - daydreaming, pushing aside tomorrow & week of work ahead . . . staying connected in my mind as much as I can with this weekend feeling
Sunday morning coffee - time to ponder – not for long, too much opportunity beckons; opportunity, if that word has gender, must be feminine; it generates such lusty anticipation, curiosity, wonder
my drive to write every day, now more compulsion than desire; not habit, not trivial – necessary to my survival & well being yet some mornings I’m stuck, so unbelievable stuck - no place to start – fudging a little by telling stories of what I did the day before or what’s on today’s horizon; like saying ‘repeat the question please’ as a stall tactic
I always have thoughts, for the most part printable ones, but why would anyone want to know this or know that ? why not just put them down ?
yesterday Krista stopped by for a visit on her home to Lethbridge, great chat with SW, drive to Banff with JB, skipped Equinox party in lieu of great sleep; today, walked Gusta, ‘, bacon & scrambled cholesterol feast, quiet . . . writing time & an outing planned with PA . . I’ll enjoy the day & work later
telling everyone or just telling this page how much something meant to me seems sometimes way too trivial, sometimes far too private
song lyrics sent to me or a joke forwarded or a ‘call me why don’tcha’ note; each is someone’s fingertip touching mine, connecting two pulses – keyboard, nanoseconds & screens are but connection details
Mark
no clue what to write
landscape description is easy – drying dying dead & shriveled evidence of another growing season tremble, then fall in the breeze to carpet the ground, earth to earth, dust to dust as they have for millennia upon millennia
inside – laundry basket overflows, sink full of dishes await dishwasher unload, desk piled high . . dining room table laden with newspaper - my Sunday New York Times actually arrived on Sunday - reading glasses & brimming coffee cup
description of thoughts, ideas & feelings challenges me more
sitting back, savoring coffee, watching the day go by out my window – thinking - daydreaming, pushing aside tomorrow & week of work ahead . . . staying connected in my mind as much as I can with this weekend feeling
Sunday morning coffee - time to ponder – not for long, too much opportunity beckons; opportunity, if that word has gender, must be feminine; it generates such lusty anticipation, curiosity, wonder
my drive to write every day, now more compulsion than desire; not habit, not trivial – necessary to my survival & well being yet some mornings I’m stuck, so unbelievable stuck - no place to start – fudging a little by telling stories of what I did the day before or what’s on today’s horizon; like saying ‘repeat the question please’ as a stall tactic
I always have thoughts, for the most part printable ones, but why would anyone want to know this or know that ? why not just put them down ?
yesterday Krista stopped by for a visit on her home to Lethbridge, great chat with SW, drive to Banff with JB, skipped Equinox party in lieu of great sleep; today, walked Gusta, ‘, bacon & scrambled cholesterol feast, quiet . . . writing time & an outing planned with PA . . I’ll enjoy the day & work later
telling everyone or just telling this page how much something meant to me seems sometimes way too trivial, sometimes far too private
song lyrics sent to me or a joke forwarded or a ‘call me why don’tcha’ note; each is someone’s fingertip touching mine, connecting two pulses – keyboard, nanoseconds & screens are but connection details
Mark
342,160
