I write the strangest stuff.
Then end up throwing it in a drawer or the back of a book; my car, my purse, out of mind and
-out of sight is a bit cliché don’t you think-
…Out of sight and … rarely noticed.
Then, after times completeness, often years later; after beating myself up over needing to clean “x” or organize “y” and then I can find “z”; there one is!
A page of illegible scribbles with gunky debris, and worn creases-
worn from the pressures of time; as if left longer there’d someday be idea diamonds in place of flimsy tobacco and gum encrusted paper.
I had cared enough to write it down in the first place. In the second, I didn’t hate having done so with such veracity that I immediately imparted these scribbles to The Great and Honorable Trash Heap.
They’re always horribly spelled and only sense making every 7or eight words…
…This is no good for me.
After decades of exercising futility, with this crumb trail of thoughts scattered throughout my life, I think I’ll try something new;
I’ll put at lease some of it here. Perhaps even read it again some day…
… after all: From time to time I am my favorite Author.