Technically, it’s not cheating.
Trying to break back into normal habits perhaps a week early, that is, to get into regular posting before completing the last of several out-of-pocket adventures1, I told myself I’d have to get a blog at least drafted before I went outside today to play.
Much as I want to fire-up the mower, chase it back-and-forth across the yard for an hour and a half, tend the trimming, and gutter cleanup, poke around in the flowerbeds a bit, then apply sealer to the front steps, it might be a good idea to break a habit more-or-less forced upon me. Start work on making regular writing my first morning routine again. First that is, after of course, checking my “Reader” to see what my WP buds have been up to.
Frustrated that all my draft pieces2 are not ready for posting, twice already I’ve considered chucking this, going outside anyway. Be good to be in the sun, sucking-in good fresh air. Probably be a good thing for everyone else too. Everyone else, being WP followers and those who get lost looking for something to read.
Then I thought why should I make life easy for my WP buddies? There are enough odd little starts in my WP folders that I know will never blossom into full posts, being too small3, too narrow in scope, and too obscure to stand alone. Why not (alas, friends, yet again) compile several unrelated bits and pieces into an olio?4
Dual purpose. Would also serve to clear a lot of directory entries of “Blog 2021-mm-dd” type from folders. Thereby exposing the serious works lost in the clutter of incomplete starts, embarrassing me into getting to back to work on commercial efforts.2
Not only they can’t spell; they’s socially impolite
Not Bobby and Bo’s treehouse – A City Park!
Should you be faced with the prospect of a meteor’s imminent impact with our abused planet earth, I offer serious, infallible advice on handling the situation: emigrate to another planetary orb before the meteor strikes.
So simple, I bet you’re surprised you’ve not thought of it. Get your planning done, so all is set. Then you can sit back and relax until the next doomsday forecast.
Old men and puppies sleep a lot.
Mirrors love women and magicians.
Politics and forest fires pollute and destroy.
No dear, it’s just a scratch.
Never as bad as it looks
You folks know I putz in the yard and in the garage. In proximity to things heavy, pointy, jaggedy, loose, wobbly, poisonous, with stingers, teeth, horns, or some convenient combination of several of the foregoing attributes. Something of a bull in the china shop. Not graceful. Or not careful. Which, of ‘careful’ and ‘graceless’ is truer, is irrelevant. Most of this attributable to the fact I’ve been hacking-around at what I do when I’m not sleeping long enough, I feel I’ve pretty-much got things figured-out.
Regularly, I’ll ding myself. Or some animate thing or inanimate object will get in my way. Discounting bites or pokes from something I don’t see in the act, unless it’s with a stupidly sharp object and an extremity is dingle-dangling, I’ll not pay nicks, scrapes, bruises, bites, or itches any mind. Momma would have insisted in the case of pointy-things I immediately rush into the house to rinse, disinfect, salve, and bandage any injury.
I ain’t got time for it. In my experience it ain’t never as bad as it looks. While I’ll admit that a good pair of denims will disguise a pretty sizeable gouge or gash,5 that still holds. Break a bone fending-off a falling chunk of angle iron or get the wind knocked out of you by a cow unaware you were standing there first, that’s a different matter.
Not seeing a boo-boo happen or immediately aware of throbbing, itching, or burning, that means it ain’t happened yet. When I wash up for lunch or supper, I’ll put down two things to make momma happy all at once. The wound will be cleaned and there’ll be an assessment of whether or not to worry over something leaking uncontrollably. Except in unusual places or exceptionally dirty environments, I eschew bandaging. Bandages are usually a waste of time in application and in ripping the damned things off when they get in the way when you return to whatever is unfinished.
On uncountable occasions I’ve been happily grunting-away at one chore or another when someone walks up and has a heart attack.
“My God! You’re bleeding!”
“Right there! On your arm!”
“Right there!” (Usually accompanied by a hesitant point and near-touch, as if a cut is communicable disease.)
“Hmm. That’ll be okay.” (Knowing it’s there. Feeling nothing. The arm still fully functional, and the last stump almost pulled out, I ain’t quitting until I’m done or the stump wins.6)
Now, Kiddies, I’m going outside. Maybe I’ll go across the street to see if Walt can come out and play. Besides that, he’s got my hedge clipper.
1 Been traveling. Paying respects to family for both sad and happy reasons. That’s why I’ve been absent and irregular the last three or so weeks. Boss and I will do it once more at least. Travel, that is. If I can figure it out, I’ll then do a long-distance solo to return some heavy ironwork to the gent who manufactured an elevator to make life around here easier. He did that for the simple reasons he thought it a good idea, he wanted to, he could, and it was too rainy to get out into the fields right then. Prince of a man. Already delivered the mechanicals. Need to return the superstructure. Thankfully not needed here anymore.
2 Drafts for WP. Another batch of “creative” works have been languishing nearly-complete too long too. I dunno you, but when a blog idea ripples inside my tiny little skull, I noodle it into a new “start” page to be expanded, polished, and published later. Bloggers know (at least I imagine they do) that many “starts” never “finish.” Good ideas lose steam, don’t sparkle as expected when all the rough edges are chipped away when the original geode is polished, or never represent a work complete in spite of its brevity. That completely discounts WIP not intended for WP – those meant to bore editors somewhere commercially.
3 Too small. Which is something of a curiosity, since a lot of WPers love “small,” “short,” “brief,” “tiny,” and any other term you might use to explain miniscule. Betcha if I could manufacture the ultimate flash fiction, a single-word, single-syllable story, my readership would quadruple.
4 My apologies to stews, paellas, casseroles, and button collections.
5 You have to wonder how you end up needing five stitches when your jeans aren’t even scuffed let alone ripped, yet your leg commences to soak your pants leg or leak into your boot until you notice something squishy or damp.
6 Once in while, they do. But wait until tomorrow. Bigger chain. Bigger truck. Or Damien’s front loader.