Before Breakfast

 

Yes, the prediction is for the rains to come, they always do here in Decembers, we’ve escaped periodically with sunlight like yesterday which actually had a spring-ish feel, felt that way on a walk through the beaver-damned-up swampland at Errol Heights, the site of much nature enjoying and poetry-inspiring walking last spring. Oh, a boy can always dream. I see that Finland elected the youngest female prime minister in the history of the world – well, at least the history the way it’s been told and passed down as of patriarchy rule which means maybe there were younger female prime ministers back in Amazon and witch-ier days but let’s stick with the 2019 narrative and rejoice that not only did Finland elect the youngest female prime minister ever, she’s just 34 – but her election meant that Finland is now going to be lead and run and operated and inspired by an all-female government. Which, that, is righteous and truly joyful-ness, and dig it, I am days from publishing my next book, this a thing of non-fiction well mostly and one of the 50 or so pieces in the book is titled “Please Give the Keys to Florence”, and while that particular story leans heavily in the direction of giving all governmental leadership positions worldwide to nurses, I’m sure we can agree, those of us with a minimum of brain cells still firing up, that this situation is Finland is a damned fine thing, and even reason for hope. Which, not being we often stumble upon reasons for hope nowadays, that’s pretty damn good.

Nearly half this country, its inhabitants, take stupid pills upon wakening each morning, sugar pie honey bunch they can’t help themselves, and those of us sticking to C’s and fish oil and healthy stuff can only hope that we don’t run into too many of the stupids any day we are lucky enough to get up out of the bed – if we’ve got one. I saw a couple of small mattresses thrown beside a bike path while out on a walk in yesterday’s mellow weather, figured there’s one less bed for someone though there could be foraging occurring sometime soon. Glad it won’t be me. I do daydream periodically about heading south to California and sleeping in my car for a couple of years, a portable bedroom and living quarters, try not to spend much money on gas, park it in fun places and live there a while, use libraries for internet, always have the old smart phone and unlimited Wi-Fi, anyway these are periodic daydreams which thrill me a little. I mean, California.

I opened up a new word Doc for a proposed book project today, did it a few minutes ago, for a book to be called “This Mess is Mine.” Oh, I do have book projects languishing in abundance, I mean to say more clearly an abundance of book projects presently in the state of languishment. Which is a drag and a bummer but also offers some sliver of hope to be an active writer any day now, what with not having to start from ground zero. “Mess” becomes the next in line of the slackers, me the chief slacker, but one who holds out hope that some morning – if the creek don’t rise and there ain’t no meltdown so as I continue to wake up and haul my butt down to the meditation chair – that one of those days I’ll come to this very keyboard and open up one of the myriad awaiting Doc’s and all of a sudden fall all the way into the story it is telling, and sweat begins bursting from my pores and my old fingers fight off cramping and I am at one with Thomas Wolfe who ran down the middle of the street shouting out that he’d written 10,000 words that day, and any writer reading this knows that’s a hell of a lot of words, proving you can go home again if you are a writer, or in my case, just get in the car and do the writing thing.

It’s like the wah-watusi.