Strumblings: like strumming open string chords on an almost in tune cheap guitar, while mumbling (supposed) thoughts of wisdom while drinking coffee in a 1960's vintage coffee house in Venice, California. Well my guitars gone - sold it to help pay for my sons tuition in a millwright trades class, stopped mumbling in Mrs. Snuggs 7th grade class when she made it her lifes goal to make me "talk up", as for words of wisdom, all I know about has come about from mistakes I've made along the way, and (I'm almost at the end of this first Strumbling, so if you've hung in there this long hang around just a bit longer, the boring stuff is done) Where was I? Covered guitar, mumbling, and thoughts of wisdom. The only thing left is coffee. McDonalds regular, one cream, two sugars please. Thank you.
I know, right off the bat, there's going to be disagreement with what I'm about to say but I've got age on my side so that trumps folks with minor points of view that are different, excluding, of course: editors, English teachers, publishers, successful writers, and others with similar credentials. Seems like, maybe there should be a trumpet fanfare or a drum rull or some such, first.... Oh well here goes, anyway:
theonlythingthatdifferentiates mumblemumble agoodwriterfromabadwriterishisher mumblemumble slantonwhatheorsheiswritingabout. Strum open C chord. Twice. Somebody in the back yell Author. Break time.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
The mule-pulled wagon shook as the four iron strapped wooden wheels danced across holes, ruts, and river rock in the sunbaked dirt road. Our rear ends ached from the wooden seats endless pounding, our breathing labored from stifling dust, little rivulets of sweat burned our eyes, itching dust streaked our faces, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky to hide us from the white furnace's glow. Pop finally pulled over and we climbed down from the wagon, scooted down the red clay bank to the shallow creek. "Watch out for the minnows, don't drink any". We cupped our hands and scooped up cold clear water that gushed out of the earth from an underground river that began somewhere far away. Thirst quinched, dirt streaks washed off of our faces, and momentarily cooled by the slightest of breezes we climbed back up the bank, got in the wagon and the torture started all over again.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Pump pump~racing heartbeat / got to clear approaching trees / pump pump~gasp for air / strain to lift a little higher / higher still~higher still / pump pump / trees below / breathing slow / gliding down / down / down too fast / falling / falling / pump pump~racing heartbeat / pump pump~gasp for air / rising now / level flight / gliding down / falling slow / slowing heartbeat / breathing shallow / fence ahead / far below / pump / glide / pump / glide / sleep.. / sleep.. / sleep...