My Favorite Chair In The Shop
To the editor:
I'm sitting on my favorite chair in the shop having coffee and donuts with Jerry the ogre, writing about nothing because the thoughts that I'm thinking aren't ready to be writ.
It's a Friday. Capital F for Freedom; a weekend getaway for two in the lofty spaces and brick encased cubicles until Monday do us part. Lower case m for monotinous. Because not even Jerry likes Mondays.
Although, in its defense, I've grown accustomed to the few expectations that accompany the first of the five day waiting period. Freedom is far off, so little energy is directed toward its approach. I suppose it's that stowed anticipation that brings Monday to a close without much delay.
Moving on.
A heterogeneous compilation of thought in a variety of vocabulary, analogy and spaghetti. The male mind attempting at least a glance of that plate, functionally adorned with sauce and a meatball or two. Follow one strand and you'll inevitably find yourself shaking hands with the whole dish and returning to your first position. Understanding is present but limited.
She cannot even begin to attempt categorization and compartmentalization of the noodly mess. It is far too great a mass to undertake such an eternal project. Each is delicately and inoperably intertwined with the whole.
He cannot interrelate. To do so would be to disregard the organization, to remove the logic. To push his reasoned mind beyond boundaries, resulting in a catastrophic multi-system failure.
For the next portion of the tour, please put on your 3-D glasses, virtual reality gloves and one sock. You choose the foot.
Two birds were sitting on a fence by a railroad track. Both were hit by stray walnuts. Was that fair? One of the birds was blue and the other was ambidextrous. One of the walnuts was actually a Beagle. A few more alterations? The railroad track was trimmed with lace and the fence heard voices. That should do it.
This room was constructed in 1736 and stapled to the main house a month after its completion. It was designed for the soul purpose of housing Mr. Van Wumpit's couches. Being a superstitious man, he didn't want his furniture walking off unkempt for the neighbors to see. Who knows what aristocratic cleaning parties would ensue?
I'm sitting on my favorite chair in the shop having coffee and donuts with Jerry the ogre, writing about nothing because the thoughts that I'm thinking aren't ready to be writ.
It's a Friday. Capital F for Freedom; a weekend getaway for two in the lofty spaces and brick encased cubicles until Monday do us part. Lower case m for monotinous. Because not even Jerry likes Mondays.
Although, in its defense, I've grown accustomed to the few expectations that accompany the first of the five day waiting period. Freedom is far off, so little energy is directed toward its approach. I suppose it's that stowed anticipation that brings Monday to a close without much delay.
Moving on.
A heterogeneous compilation of thought in a variety of vocabulary, analogy and spaghetti. The male mind attempting at least a glance of that plate, functionally adorned with sauce and a meatball or two. Follow one strand and you'll inevitably find yourself shaking hands with the whole dish and returning to your first position. Understanding is present but limited.
She cannot even begin to attempt categorization and compartmentalization of the noodly mess. It is far too great a mass to undertake such an eternal project. Each is delicately and inoperably intertwined with the whole.
He cannot interrelate. To do so would be to disregard the organization, to remove the logic. To push his reasoned mind beyond boundaries, resulting in a catastrophic multi-system failure.
For the next portion of the tour, please put on your 3-D glasses, virtual reality gloves and one sock. You choose the foot.
Two birds were sitting on a fence by a railroad track. Both were hit by stray walnuts. Was that fair? One of the birds was blue and the other was ambidextrous. One of the walnuts was actually a Beagle. A few more alterations? The railroad track was trimmed with lace and the fence heard voices. That should do it.
This room was constructed in 1736 and stapled to the main house a month after its completion. It was designed for the soul purpose of housing Mr. Van Wumpit's couches. Being a superstitious man, he didn't want his furniture walking off unkempt for the neighbors to see. Who knows what aristocratic cleaning parties would ensue?
The remainder of this entry has moved.
You may now find it at:
100 East 42nd Street
New York, NY 10017
posted by Still Daddy at 3:16 PM
2 Comments:
I love this entry. I must have laughed, like, 10 times by the time I finished reading it, and then some. My favorite is the part about the birds sitting near the railroad tracks.
I was revisiting your blog for inspiration. I came across this entry again and still love it. I really do miss your writings. I wish you had more time to write like this, like you used to. It's definitely one of the many things I love about you. You make me laugh even when you're not with me.
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