Another Musing

The thunder mutters outside and I sit staring at the laptop, wondering about this writing... thing.

I call it a thing because so far it is not a vocation or a career, though that is the aim of most writers - to be able to make some kind of monetary value out of the words thrown at the screen or piece of paper.

A flicker of light from the lightning outside and a moment later the thunder agrees with my internal dialogue.

Mumble, mumble, mutter.

Sometimes that is what words feel like, mumbles and muttering that are thrown out like a message in an empty rum bottle.
(But why is the rum gone?)

I have been unable to write for almost a month - call it writer's block, call it laziness... Hell call it simple "not wanting to-ness" which I know is not actually a real word though it does work.

The laptop hums and its small fan whirls into overtime as it updates its anti-virus.

The dog sits next to me on the bed, she does not like thunder storms, they irritate her. So I do not mind her sitting on the bed, plus the company is reassuring.

As I reassure her that the thunder is simply a noise and it will all be alright maybe I am reassuring myself of the same (not about the thunder gods) but that in the end it will also be alright.

Mumble, mumble, mutter.

That is what writing is about, throwing words at a page or screen and hoping the resulting splatter effect will make sense.

The thunder grumbles at me from outside and I wish I could join it.

Maybe it is trying to reassure me in its rough, low voice.

Mumble, mumble, mutter... It will be alright, listen to my voice for I have seen the world.

I should start listening to that mumble more often.

The Laughing Heart

This is a short but rather poignant poem by Charles Bukowski.

Some might find it difficult to follow because of the music that accompanies it.

Listen and enjoy: