Spill it . . .

Dear you,

After doing a few online essay reviews as my jobette requires, I feel the need to essay myself, but without direction or discipline.   Do you remember free-writing exercises?  Very 1970s. But they were useful, prompting composition spillage 😊.  That is my assignment for today. Let the spilling begin . . .

Carol condo owner next door invites me to go to Stinky’s for dinner.  Stinky.  Why do people name restaurants like that?  Stinky’s, Dirty Dan’s, Salty Sue’s, why not just name the joint Revolting Experience?  I don’t get it.  I don’t get the spin on the television.  Impeachment.  Games.  Senate turning away from testimony possibilities.  Why not?  Let the 800 pound gorilla in the room speak.  800 pound mustache, John Bolton.  Kobe Bryant, his daughter, and other sweet people died in a helicopter crash.  Celebrities and crashes.  Crashes.  Not thinkable.  Stouffer’s turkey and mashed potato, good.  Not stinky.  The demon dog barking in the lot next door.  Next door.  I’ve said that twice.  Hunter Biden.  800 pound red herring.  When did I first learn about logical fallacies?  I love logical fallacy games.  This lunch is good.  My cat is beautiful and I hear the word “rotunda” on television.  I am tired of my computer’s Word system underlining words indicating errors.  I don’t want to put dashes between 800 and pound.  I also don’t want to put commas before coordinating conjunctions.  That is over.  That is about as over as using the pronoun “whom”.  And I hate the fact that the machine automatically inserts an emoji when I just want to type the old school colon followed by a parenthesis mark. To whom it may concern.  I now gargle with coconut oil.  Is this a fad?  The sky is very winter blue today and the pine trees and palms I see through my giant balcony doors are stunning, like a photograph.  What does that mean?  The trees are real.  Why should a representation like a photo be the thing I say the real thing looks like?  Simulation simulacra.  Who was that French theorist?


Time is up.

Considering the last thing written:  Who was that French theorist?

I have forgotten his name.

I am pretty sure his name wasn’t Stinky.  Or Dirty Dan.


And this, my friends, is my post for the end of January, 2020.  Suitable for what appears to be a year of free-writing/free-wheeling incoherence and a nod to all of us who live and leave, sometimes forgotten, sometimes not.


Love to you . . .

Kobe . . .

And the koalas . . .

Joyce

The future?

Dear you in 2020,

Moving on is on my mind today.  My morning push-ups are noisy, meaning my shoulders make strange noises during the activity.  And I am using  massive amounts of coconut oil all over my body.  Literally.  All. Over.  But literal aging is not the thing I am pondering. I am head-tilting at change, evolution in general. I am thinking about the great Tom Brady and the Patriots' loss during the NFL Wild Card game last weekend.  New players and new teams are moving on to the big games.  He and the Pats are not.  And I am a bit blue about that.

Why?

Life is not cement.
Life is fluid.
We cannot stay in one place or in one crowd forever.
Even Tom Brady knows this.

So, again, why am I blue?

Because.

I will miss watching him work with that team, throwing bullet passes.  I will miss watching him mess with the opposing team's defensive strategy.  I will miss the way he and his pals and that fabulous coach (cranky) somehow always figured out a way to win.   It  made me believe "loss" was not the norm and forever there would be a happy ending.  Fade to black and seal it in cement.

But, on the other hand, there is something better than sentimental blues: expectation and surprise! Nothing is over.  Tom Brady certainly isn't.  And neither am I.  Where does he go next?  What will his "game" be?  Where will I go next?  What will my "game" be?  I don't know.  I don't care that I don't know.

Because.

Life is not cement.
Life is fluid.
We cannot stay in one place or in one crowd forever.
And even I know that.

Love,
Joyce