I'm on my back in bed again this morning. Can't stand, can't sit. This is getting old. Pain does not make a good bedmate.
But the birthday party was a success. There were banners and signs and balloons and dirigibles, everything to make a party look like a party. And there was far more booze than anyone could drink--except for champagne. All anyone wanted was champagne. I'm still the darling of the elder crowd. And there was more food than could be eaten. All the neighborhood came and despite the forecast, the day was sunny and lovely. I'd planned the party from two until four. And just like that (snap of the fingers), a cloud drifted overhead and it began to rain at quarter past. Perfect. There were no stragglers to deal with.
I, however, was worn out. Dead. I had been running around town for days trying to get things together, and then there had been the nerves of managing the crowd. When everyone was gone, there was the long cleanup. And when that was done, I collapsed into a chair next to my mother and asked if she had a good time. Of course she did, but like me. . . neither of us are much into parties.
Still, she had a grand one.
Home, I poured a drink and lit a cheroot. I sat out on the rotten deck to contemplate "things." I shouldn't contemplate so much, but what else have I to do?
I was in bed by nine-thirty.
Q is no longer a blogger. He's just a suit now, not a guy. He has effectively shut his blog down. No more family pics, no more monthly postings. If I deride him enough here, though, he will open back up. He will not stand the slings and arrows and turn the other cheek. But I'm not one to kick a man when he's down--more than once.
So long, Q. It was fun while it lasted.
He probably has an underground blog. On the newest platform. And he wears a suit while writing there. A boa maybe. And Wrestling shorts.
ReplyDeleteI’m glad it was a success.
I was wondering, while writing the other day, about the definition of “thing.” I didn’t look it up - odd for me - it’s a good/bad word. Or “weak” as is pointed out to me by the poem gods. Sometimes it is just the right word. I think. I’ll check back again sometime.
Gerunds. That’s another one. I believe, no word is out of the realm when writing. It’s more about - Energy. I think. The “vortex” Mr. Pound said. That and only what is necessary. And that all depends on what comes - what flows through you.
Rules are good if you are just learning. Studying. Practicing. Then at some point - they must be smashed to bits. At least one should try - you can always go back - to whatever works - for you. But - dip over the edge. T used to say. Into the abyss. Hold your hands out like 2 nets - see what you got to use. Sometimes it’s stuff that’s always been there with you. But it looks - different somehow.
Well. I’m stoned.
That’s how I write. I dunno. Everyone has a different style. They say Eliot’s hand burned as he wrote.
I love talking about writing. T and I did endlessly. Cause it’s an endless topic.
Anyways. Why nobody eating at Kappys? We got Kappys here. But it’s a liquor store. Plenty o people there - all the time.
Monday checked off the list.
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