Thursday, January 13, 2011


I can’t seem to find my voice. Too much going on inside and outside of my head.
I had a great Blog all written in my head today. All about the death of my Boot. I had even managed to add in a bit of shameless product placement and self-promotion. Two of the best reasons that the vain amongst us write blogs.
Being vain I know a little about that.
Alas, my boot is dead.
My blogging voice seems to have become stuck. I need to clear my head. Run a few miles, bike a dozen or so, swim some laps. Something.
I have been reading some great stuff out there, and usually that inspires me to write more and more.
My boot, is dead.
I took the kidduns swimming tonight, saw half a dozen things easily written about. Water aerobics, hairy backs, psychotic mommies, bored lifeguards, wedgies, flossies, snuggies, adults that should wear one piece coveralls to swim in and a plethora of astonishing things. On a normal day I would be laughing even now. Three hours after toweling myself off amidst the hordes of public swimmer types. Reminding myself why I pay for a private gym.
My boot is, dead.
I sit here, looking at the words on the screen and they just blend together. Strings of meaningless symbols that my stunned mind is unable to translate. How do people learn to read another language? Staring at a bunch of abstract shapes until meaning forms in a cartoon cloud over their heads?  Listening to grunts and hoots and hollers while someone points at squiggles on a board and hums at you? What was God thinking when he separated all of the people and split the world. Did she realize the chaos that would result? Why could they not have just left us all alone? We humans screw it all up just fine all by ourselves before we even add in religion.
My. Boot. is. Dead.
This life, past life, future life, it’s all the same. You are not anything right now that you have not become or will become in time. Now is really all we have. Each moment stretching taffy like to the next. The memory of that moment grows thinner and thinner until it snaps back into the big strand. Heaven or hell or pushing a rock with Sisyphus. What matters is now.
My boot is dead.
and he had sole.

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