The Urine Trilogy
Rereading all of them is more like looking at a journal of schizophrenic episodes. Oh, that's the week I was into staccato sentences.
First I turned off the TV after "Jersey Shore" without watching "LA Ink." Then I celebrated my strong will. I plugged in my laptop and then decided to clean the kitchen. Then I celebrated cleaning the kitchen.
Void of blog fodder and currently in the middle of a few books, write-writing it is. Cursor is like a pulse, I think to myself, and in thinking that to myself realize that if this is the way I am going to be thinking, no good writing can possible follow.
I could write a blog post about plunging the toilet in the upstairs bathroom. It's a funny story, actually. And gross. Mostly gross. But there was this really great moment I'd like catalogued for the ages: Me looking at Chuck, Chuck looking at me, me realizing that here we are, adults, living in our own house with a clogged toilet. There is no escaping this chore.
I wrote a haiku about it last night because the new law is that I write. A haiku counts. I texted the final draft to Chuck, who was at work.
He said it made his gorge rise.
But back to that cursor. I wrote a sentence, liked the first half and hated the second half. I took a break. "The Portable Dorothy Parker" is sitting on a stack of books on our table, so I opened it the way some people open a bible and focus on a section and wait for an answer:
"He was a very good looking man, shaped to be annoyed." Like the first half, love the second half.