10,000 Letters You Only Thought Were About You

Sometimes you write a letter to Paul Simon and tell him you know he borrowed a line from for one of his songs and then wait to see if he responds.

He doesn’t reply so you send him a recording of you singing with Art and ask him what he thinks of that.

“C’mon Paul, write me back and maybe I’ll take you out for your 51, 52 or 98th birthday, but only if you are very lucky.”

Paul doesn’t respond so you write him another note and tell him you are getting coffee with Bruce and spending an evening with Stephen King writing.

“Take that Paulie.”

There is still silence so you write one more note saying “read this or the clown and the cat die.”

The silence continues and you wonder if maybe your emails are going into spam or if he hired a Trump supporter to respond to letters in which case you understand it is hard to chisel letters on rock tablets.

“Take that, 10,000 letters you only thought were about you” you mutter knowing it doesn’t make a lick of sense.

Maybe You Need To Be Properly Pounded

As you roll through your silly post about nothing with a wannabe Seinfeld attitude you mutter I’ll show you how I hide my love away and wonder if people are clever enough to understand or think you are a kook.

Two hands and a mouth later you push forward knowing you are indeed a kook but laughing cuz you don’t care.

In theory if someone had read 10,000 letters they might follow all the nonsense as well as anyone could.

One doesn’t have dance in or around a fire to read smoke signals, though it must be said if a spark lights up the back of your trousers you will find yourself dancing with reckless disregard whether you are embarrassing yourself.

Speaking of that I headed out to Frisco for work today and discovered that the thunder from lightning that seemed to strike the building in front of me was the kind of motivation required to make me jump.

It is too bad there wasn’t a basketball in my hands and a hoop nearby because for the first time in 30 years I might have been able to grab the rim.


Following my unexpected flight I decided to catch lunch at a place at the second location of what one guy referred to as the “Jew Deli.”

Haven’t been to the other spot in a while so I figured corned beef would make a nice meal.

Chowed down and headed back to my side of town because our weather can be a bit nutty and I didn’t want to get stuck in rush hour traffic in a storm.

Two miles outside of the Costco in Lewisville I watched a driver lose control of his vehicle and somehow not crash into anyone or anything.

Two minutes my stomach crashed and I beat a hasty retreat for Costco.

By the time I ran the 100 yards between my car and the building I looked like I had taken a bath. By the time I walked out of the stall it wasn’t clear if I was still soaked from rain or sweat.

Made it home and did the walk/run between bedroom and bath for hours. It killed my gym plans but I did get my 10,000 steps in, so there is that.

Writing Writing Writing

Something wasn’t right with my superhero mask last night so I have been relatively tired all damn day.

It was exacerbated by stress and that unexpected Bathroom w0rkout so I am feeling a little worn out right now.

But if things hold true to form within 15 minutes I’ll get another surge of energy and I’ll feel more or less restored.

The question I am asking myself is if I’ll sit down and write out some of the story ideas floating through my head.

Punched out and posted a few earlier this week, but haven’t quite figured out what to do about tonight. Couldn’t not write somewhere, but could wait to do some of the other stuff…maybe.

Figure I’ll go sit and read and if the words come bubbling up and insist on being positioned and placed I shall do so.

Grateful it is the weekend and that I can set aside time to do extra writing–this is the connection with the past, present and future.

Can’t choke forever.

Might use this song, might not.

Got to grab the notebook and jot down some ideas so I’ll leave you with this thought.

Some of you have been reading these silly musings for years and probably would recognize my writing if you saw it elsewhere.

But you wouldn’t recognize my handwriting because you never see it. Wouldn’t know if my signature was real or fake.

So strange to me sometimes to think about how much has changed. My oldest told me he hates when people write in cursive because it is hard to read.

I told him that sounded silly because he spent time in school learning it.

“Dad, that was like second and third grade.”

I think that is probably right. It probably is a decade since he did anything with it consistently.

Strange to think about how many essays I wrote that way and how now my hands tire so quickly because I don’t handwrite, I type.

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