It won’t be the first time.
I fell asleep last night reading a book. I woke this morning with the imprint of the spine on my face. Funny, I am finding the book interesting. I must have been tired.
It was gardening day today. I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay home and write! It’s shocking. I have ideas, strange and wonderful ideas of ripping out paragraphs and adding new ones.
I am thinking of cutting my last essay into little bits and then randomly reconstructing it. Wouldn’t that be fun? What would be the result. Gibberish and babble? Or one of those new fangled fragmented forms everyone insists are the best thing since I don’t know Montaigne? even better WWLT?
I’ve been good so long, working on projects, meeting deadlines, getting to work on time, not making too many snotty sarcastic remarks. It has to be time to act up, act out, stir the pot, unscrew the top of the salt shaker, put baking powder in the sugar.
But first a shower to get a layer of Inver Grove Heights off my body. We burned garden debris today. I figure I used up my carbon allowance for at least the next lifetime. Not my call, unfortunately. Now I smell like burnt sage and mint. The smell made me reminisce. Smoke in my eyes and burning in my lungs. Now I try not to inhale! Weed, herb, grass, pot. We were all destine to become gardeners.