Stream of Consciousness

Back in the summer, I took a writing class.  We were supposed to write down whatever came into our minds. It all started out in a rather staid exposition about what we’d been doing in class. Then at the word “Edelbrock,” it went off the rails. (Edelbrock is a brand of performance intake manifold for a car engine). With this style of writing, we weren’t supposed to go back & correct typos. It was timed, I think 30 minutes.

First Thoughts

I sat down to read Goldberg. I found her easy to read & engaging. Then the orange tom cat rubbed damply against my legs and in his broken mrrrowwwrrrr insisted that I scrtch him. This is at 6:15 AM. My eyes divert  from the book to the cat. His fur gets fridutzed, his ears flapped a bit. He purrs loudly. I assure him that I need to read. He sits beside me and purrs loudly. The book patiently welcomes me back.

I read a few more minutes. The house is quiet. Morning is a good time to study. My thoughts wander to the day’s work. Did I schedule the job, or was I just going to show up? Do I need to get diesel fuel for the chipper? Are the saws sharp? What maintenance needs to be done before we can go to work?

The internet calls. I could check the weather radar. Last night they said it was going to be nice. Not as hot as a week ago. That was brutal. Hard to drink water fast enough, but still avoid feeling waterlogged. Still, you never know. There might be a rogue shower out there just over the ridge, laying in wait for an unsuspecting tree climber. On ne jamais sait. Or email or ebay or the blog or the blog. So many things jangle. So little time. Back to the book.

Perhaps I am like the Minnesotans. I use sentences but am too conventional. This from someone who prides himself on being unconventional. A free thinker. Edelbrock. There are motor heads in my cereal. This is uncinscienable he says irately. Why not allow th penguins in the front sdoor? Sometimes a ferhoodle is th best kerfuffle there is, lacking any other. Besides, it’s the taste of rosemary that makes it so. Two tires and a bushel of gravel makes soup with the right touch. It takes a big pot, though.

Meanwhile on the mossy side of the log, the newt is talking strategy with the toad. They are planning an insurrection just down the street by the alligator trap. There haven’t been any alligators here for years, so they have high hopes. Still, a loyalist frog could shoot the whole scheme down in flames. One big propane tank. Kaboom whoosh. Still, who would expect anything different from the uneducated masses? I mean, whenever you’re stuck on the winter side of the mounatain and it’s summertime, you’re bound to slip your way into something questionable.

So off we go in a free fall. The matter if living in the moment is stolen by the question of what’s at the bottom, whether it’s soft, hard, gooey or splashy. Back in the moment, brain recognizes that we’ll know soon enough and that the wind in our whiskers, calculated at 87 knots and increasing, has nothing to say directly to us about the situation. Somehow at the bottom, we are redirected by a moleish traffic cop with no hat and beady little eyes. He accuses us of failure to obey traffic signs, which is a no points offense but pays the judge well enough.

Off in the field, under the shade of a spreading burdock tree, the judge holds court, hoping someday to be someone of consequence. For the time being though, he’ll have to settle for the receipts from traffic fines and a few crème filled doughnuts. Corruption is rampant. The insurgency has been busted, even though its creit score was robust. It wasn’t busty enugh to clear them of the charges. So they called in the electric eel who executed the charges with a zap of the finny tail. Va-Voom! E.O.G. End of gopher.

Tsk Tsk said the rabbit. The neighborhood s going to hell. They’ll let anyone move in here these days. What about m property value? The individious shrew tells him to take it up with the judge. But the rabbit has no crème filled doughnuts, and the judge has had his fill of such debauchery for the day and signs disgustedly off the ait. Ah, Limbaugh.

If there’s nothing else, there’s always someone’s leg to gnaw on even if it’s your own. Not perhaps aesthetically pleasing, but like a hoop snake, when it’s the only thing to eat, that’s dimnner. So there it goes. Back on the burner. Into the frying pan, ot of the fire but still not heat free. On the Schofield index, about 3000. Nnow that’s what I call dilution. The solution to pollution. So the river says except for the heavy metals loitering in the mus and fish fat. Ah. The next great threat. Ozbese fish. Get them signed up for Richard Simmons’ latest greatest weight loss program. We will once again have thin fish. But they’ll be free, only at government expense. So it goes. I’m from the government, let me help you. And if I ever see a man coming to help me, let meturn and run the other way. Right into a bear trap, with my luck. The bear will be there with the frying pan and the fire. My choice which to jump into. And here goes. But the bear put too much grease in the pan, so I skated on a cross, with little trails of flames following my heels like in back to the future. Pull a half pipe on the edge of the pan and hope I land on the outside. Physics isn’t like that, though.

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