Scribbles

March 15, 2017 Scribble

I spent twenty minutes holding my head to the right as a doctor went in again for my fourth thyroid biopsy. “Boy this is really deep,” he said. “Yep, maybe you’ll be the guy,” I said. It is clear with have a nodule or two. We don’t clearly know if it is cancer. “At least if it is cancer, this is the best one to get,” said my endocrinologist. “It takes so long to grow.” Comforting. While other writers are busy taking people to other places, I’m in an endless loop of out-patient surgery. No, you would not be interested in the waiting, prodding, and sore neck. It doesn’t jump off as one of those stories you want to hear.

***

Hemingway said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” True. Sometimes you just have to write it out and hope something sticks. Then let it fall to the floor. In Hemingway & Gellhorn  he says,” Never crumple pages. Always let them float gently into the basket. Any writer who rips out his stuff and crumples it will go insane in a year, guaranteed.” I like the idea of floating paper to the trash. I would float this to the trash, but it’s a huge monitor.

***

It turns out nobody reads this blog. I thought it would serve as an inspiration to other writers by showing the struggles a writer goes through to get the words just right. Turns about the only one inspired is me.

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When the leaves on the tree turned brown my suspicions were confirmed; this whole time the drip irrigation didn’t work. A quick rewire and we have water. It seems the electrons must flow before the water.

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When you are asked,”What are we missing?”, and you point out the missed coverage, the answer you are not expecting is a curt, “We are going to miss a lot things,” as a reply.

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I saw a question pondering if a location could serve as a character? I immediately thought of Here There By Tygers by Ray Bradbury. He seemed to answer in 1951. Maybe the same questions need the same answers?

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Just saw a picture of me on a computer screen. Scary old dude staring back. When did I become a doppelganger for Grandpa Kay?

***

A mother left her child in a store on purpose. The one time we misplaced Matthew, I ran around the store in a panic. “He was just here!” I imagined him slapped by a kidnapper. I considered how my mother-in-law would react. Lots of slapping from her, I imagined. Darla would be devastated. “How could you lose him?” I feared leaving the entrance for too long. “What if he ran outside?”

I never wanted to ditch a kid in the store. What kind of a parent could she be? My empathy would outsize my desire to find freedom. Like the Tell Tale Heart, I would hear the kid screaming out my name.

Police found the mom. We are still waiting to find out why she left her child. We found Matthew; sprinted straight to the electronics.

***

Window washers are mid-way up the building across from me. In college, I missed the semester class on window washing. I wonder if one of the washers has a degree in English Lit? “I’m just doing this job for the fresh air.” The job likely requires a strong backbone and a fondness for heights. I can see the job advertisement: “Wanted. Free spirit who desires to cling to side of building with a squeegee and a bucket of soap. Must be able to artistically apply soap in a swirling motion and remove suds uniformly. Minimum wage.” I have no idea. Surely, there must be a hazard pay bonus?

***

A blizzard halted air travel between New York and Washington D.C., a mudslide ate a car in Portland, and in Las Vegas, tourists are wearing shorts as we head to a mid-80s high. The spring weather reminds me of leaving a 24-degree Utah for a mid-90s Arizona; the smell of honeysuckle and orange blossoms so sweet, I thought we had found the Garden of Eden. The cold melted off my bones and the desert sun filled me with hope. I procrastinated returning to the cold. I had a taste of paradise and I detested to leave it.

The tourists in shorts must feel the same way. It is only Wednesday and the weekend is hurrying to end their vacations. Back to the snow!

 

© 2017, Michael Shawn Sommermeyer. All rights reserved.


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