Phil says being a Pisces, I’m always up for fun, but also being a Virgo, (rising, moon) I like to get it over with so I can get back to work. I thought about it: that’s fair. This is the seventh draft of this blog post. Don’t bother me until it’s up.
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I read somewhere that some people don’t have an internal narrative. I can’t imagine not having one and wish I could occasionally turn mine off. My mind runs on, stream of consciousness-like but always in words and often in sentences. Waking in the night, I frequently find myself “writing.” This morning around three I rewrote the ending of an essay and when I woke at 6:30 remembered I needed to rework that last sentence.
Whittier neighborhood, looking east, 11/26/23
As promised, a mousetrap story, courtesy of The Denverite, Kevin J. Beaty, August 28, 2023. Beaty was driving to an appointment through our infamous I-25/I-70 intersection when he saw a percussionist, “a shirtless guy absolutely shredding on the side of the highway.” The drummer was Alex Sturdy and The Denverite has a video of him shredding at the mousetrap, but this is the part I relished:
“I had to turn around, obviously, which sent me on I-70, then Brighton, then I-70, then I-25, then 38th Avenue, then I-25 until I could finally return to this unexpected sight and pull over.”
If you’ve ever had a change of heart at the Mousetrap, you’ve been there.
I wrote a mousetrap poem in the 70s, wish I could find it. It was a hit at readings.
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I’m watching a cat video. (What I resort to when my brain won’t deliver the right word.) The Great Dane is in one room and would like to go to the other. The cat, allegedly asleep, sprawls in the doorway, blocking it. The Dane paces and whines and can’t get out. Maybe this is why I love cats. They’re so controlling.
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Word puts blue squiggly underlines in my sentences before “and,” wanting me to insert commas. I just read an excerpt from Hemingway and counted a dozen “ands” that Chicago Manual of Style would have wanted him to put a comma in front of and wow, would that have put a hitch in his getalong.
Word puts a red squiggly under getalong, wants me to make it two words, but that’s wrong. Having a hitch in your getalong, a tasty Southern expression, usually means you have a limp.
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Someone lost in Facebook infinity said instead of a bucket list, they were making an F—it list. Fill in the blank as you choose, just so it rhymes with bucket. I apologize to that someone since I can’t relocate him/her to give credit. A start on an F—it List:
Things I Plan to Never Do Again
Rise before the sun.
Work after dark.
Apply for a job.
Sit through a faculty in-service.
Attend any event that’s LOUD.
Attend anything that involves a crowd.
Take less than an hour or fewer than two cups of coffee for breakfast.
F—all of that.
Please add your own F—it items in comments on the blog. Participants 65 and over preferred, but hey, it’s still a free country, at least until the next election. You could be 20 and join in if you like.
City Park