nobody asked…

This sunny Sunday morning I am niether vertical nor horizontal, but somewhat slantindicular. The last two days of fast-paced, heavy-duty work have taken a toll on mind and body. And, there is more to come. So I gave the finger to Morpheus and slept in (6:00 AM instead of the usual 5:00 AM), and have been sitting here for a couple of hours now, sipping coffee and staring at the screen, wondering who I am, and catching up on the mystical, intellectual spewings displayed on your pages. I thank all of you for your kind comments during my incarceration and for your continued donation of alms for my early release.

In the course of browsing and reading, I started itching (no not that old infection you’re undoubtedly thinking of) to scratch something in the sand to let you know I’m still alive. Alas, my mind is truly tabula rasa, even after several cups of the hot dark nectar and a stack of Roomie’s banana pancakes.

While visiting with Liz and observing her performing sensual acts with samphire, I followed a link to Clare, one of her commenters I had not seen before, discovered her struggle with writer’s block and this jewel from one of my favorite baudy barons of brambly banter:

I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again. — Oscar Wilde

I yield to the young lady from the UK and the gentleman from Ireland, and accept my mindless churning as a temporary condition that shall subside with proper application of rest, good food, and a nice wine or three.