So, I'm sitting on the patio at the laptop, trying to avoid the glare of the sun and a breeze that periodically kicks up dog hair and cigarette ashes. The house is full of girls in their early 20s, rabidly awaiting bacon and eggs after an evening "on the town" that went too late for civilized bodies. They all look used up and a little guilty. Someone's bra hangs on the clothes line, discarded for a late night/very early morning swim. I keep the music down to a dull throb that I can barely hear over the rustling of wind-blown leaves.
I'd like to write. God knows. But the demands of this house, this morning, and the dog begging that the frisbee be thrown and returned and thrown and returned, are too much. And the cat's been sitting on the laptop again, so the "g" key refuses to cooperate. My smartphone continues to wink it's single red eye at me, somewhere on the edge of consciousness.
There must be an idea in here somewhere, I keep trying to convince myself. Some kernel of a story or a few lines of verse that might reflect on the moment. But it's bottled. Corked.
Still, I can't help but smirk a little. Satisfied or mixed up in the madness, it's too early to tell. I'll just pound away - a little too violently whenever the letter "g" is required - and hope for the best. A happy accident. Something worth reducing to words. Something worthy of sharing.
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