Into The Basket
How empty the brain. Photographs scanned. New quote. Page copied into Homesite. Ready to write. Ready to write. Sounds like my car this morning. Ready to start. Ready to start.
One thing about going in early. If the day has started and I haven't, I can drop by one of the coffee
shops, have breakfast and read the paper. Think empty thoughts and watch the people walking outside on the sidewalk heading to their work. Today was such a day, the morning was such a morning and breakfast was such a breakfast. The office seemed better for my absence and the odd task or two was accomplished by the time the afternoon was finished. And that was it. I feel pretty good, the day is all but done, the mind is calm...and numb. So what, if anything, is different? An odd dance upon the stones, socks and shoes to protect me from any but the semblence of shock or feeling or contact. What did you do today, sport? Was there life after breakfast?
Ah, well. What need for meaning when the words move right along, except for the occasional reader, who may have come by half expecting, if not content, then at least coherence. These thoughts are but a well practiced exercise, flint to stone to fire, a routine designed to prod sleeping demons, to turn it all into meaningful meaty message pretty quick or toss it into the basket. Or post it. On a Thursday. In Oakland.