nada

I have absolutely nothing interesting to post today. So I will instead do a writing exercise. I of course would need to find a writing exercise to do and then, of course, do said writing exercise.

Hmmm…. Setting:

The swamp had all qualities that people come to associate with swamps. It was damp. It was dark. The din of insect wings and the chorus of frogs and birds was both a constant humming background noise and a persistent source of distraction. But swamps are not best described by sound and sight. Swamps are best described by smell and taste. It stank and it tasted like befouled mud. The stink was stronger than the taste, but that was only because I wasn’t actively mouthing the swamp. The taste was one of those unpleasant tastes when your environment permeates… invades your mouth and then just sits there like a rock, but the taste was mild compared to the smell. The smell of the fetid. The smell of decay. The smell of … of… environmental ambivalence. This was a place that did not care if I were alive or dead. It was a place that would find just as much if not more use for me being dead as it would for me being alive. That is what I could taste. That is what I could smell. That is what I heard. That is what I saw. This ambivalence to my existence is why it was so surprising to see a cozy stone cottage with wisps of smoke rising from its chimney.

To recap:
Nordstrom’s has great customer service
Little Man has some new shoes
The remodel might be about done
I still have a laundry list of things to get done
And there is a laundry list of things after the first list
That is the way of “to-do” lists
They never truly get “to-done”
Not listening to anything at the moment
I am watching three MatchTrackers for the England / US friendly being played right now at Wembly
England is up 1 to nil at half

Writing Exercise

Here comes another writing exercise.

Sure, sure there are some of you out there who feel I have more topics that I could be writing about. Some might be curious how Little Man is holding up under the withering glare of autocratic Papa. Some of you might be curious as to how Wifey is doing in Canada. There area substantial portion of you fine folk who would like more information regarding my mom’s Cancer of the Lady Bits. Well, there is not much to report regarding the homefront, the Canadianfront, or the momfront. Little Man and I are getting along just fine, Wifey is surviving well enough in the frigid tundra that is Canada, and I am also awaiting more information on Mom’s Cancer of the Hoo-Hah. Little Man will be well and tired of me by tomorrow evening when he would like me to make Manwich (which he is happy to announce rhymes with sandwich, I mentioned that was part of Manwich’s marketing plan, but he seemed unimpressed.) Wifey is feeling comfortable and confident in a relatively unknown role for her at the group facilitation thing she is doing. My mom should be in appointment right now finding out more information about the Cancer that Shall Not Speak Its Name.

I could try and create a post from the fringes of my consciousness, but, honestly that is more work that I am willing to commit to. Plus, with the level of my sleep deprivation that I am currently enjoying, the continuity of a post like that would be questionable at best. Truthfully, there is a good chance that a contrived post from the esoterica that is intertwined between my conscious and subconscious self would ramble aimlessly on for over a page, briefly alighting on subjects as varied as the horrid voice acting from The ThunderCats, the theory of relativity, and why Dora’s amazingly huge noggin frustrates me so.

No one wants to read my ill-formed rants about 80’s cartoons, Einsteinian Physics, and poorly thought out children’s programming. While the voice acting on the Thundercats seems dismal, I am pretty sure it was not the voice actors fault as much as it was just a poorly conceived cartoon created in the beginning of the market driven cartoons. That being said, I will not be focusing on that even remotely. And don’t get me started on Dora’s inability to look behind her. It has to do with la gigante cabeza Dora is sporting. She can’t turn that massive oblong monstrosity in time to spot Swiper. It really is too bad that boots is such a useless primate. If Dora was paired up with Gleek swiper would be a stole. I swear that Gleek was the only character with a lick of sense from the Superfriends, but that is a topic for another day.

So, really, the most responsible avenue as a conscientious blogger is to stay away from the rambly stream of consciousness that would occur with any sort of attempted post without the structure associated with a writing exercise. So here it goes:

Finish this.
John and Charlie didn’t know…

how Sam got the glitter on his upper lip, but they were pretty sure they didn’t want to find out.

To recap:
Man, am I tired
Capt McArmypants should be visiting soon
Maybe tomorrow
Maybe Friday
Day 3 of 5 sans Wifey
For some reason I think Wifey and Capt McArmypants will be arriving on the same day
Listening to Ghost Riders in the Sky by Johnny Cash
Digital Thursday tomorrow
Cheers

Writing Exercise

So today is another day that is leaving me hanging as far as coming up with a topic. So, here it is again, writing exercise time. This exercise is pretty open-ended. Describe a character… Here we go:

If you scan a crowd, invariably your eye will rest on Tom - if he is there. He is never in the front preferring to hover on the edges. His intense desire not to be noticed seems to be the very reason that you end up concentrating on him. People do not immediately realize just how tall a man Tom is. He always seems to be stooping with the conspicuous droopy shoulder and shuffling gate of someone who did not want to get noticed. The truth is that Tom is rather tall. If anyone can get him to stand up straight he would tower over most people in a room. Getting Tom to stand up straight is like asking the wind to stop. The interesting thing about Tom is that you cannot help but notice when he is there, but you will not realize when he is gone. Turns out he is gone more than he is there, which is an interesting fact in and of itself.

If anyone ever asks what Tom looks like, the answer is typically the same. –He has kind of blondish or light to medium brownish hair. His eyes are either blue or green, but they might be a light-ish brown or something. Sometimes he wears glasses. His voice is hard to place because he is so quiet. He dresses pretty much like anyone else.—basically Tom is a attention grabbing but ultimately forgettable presence.

Getting Tom to look you in the eye is quite a challenge. It would be an easy task if your eyes were somehow attached to either of his shoes. Furtive glances seem to be the most eye contact anyone can drag from him. If you are lucky enough to be right next to him, he might grace you with his quiet commentary of what is going on around him. You wouldn’t think that someone so incredibly intent on not being observable would have such scathing wit. The sarcasm seeps from his frame almost like an undetectable gas leak. You can catch hints and whiffs of his observations, but cannot ever truly get a full picture of what he is saying. If you laugh because of his muted remarks, he will quietly slip away with the slightest possibility of a smirk on his face. A few people have laughed at his mutterings only to be faced with explaining to others why they were laughing by themselves.

Anyway…

To the recap:
Digital Thursday is tomorrow
Dinner is tonight
Not sure what that will be
Wifey has a 5 PM meeting
That means it is a early day for me
Kick ass
Other than “Pyramids Happen” any other T-shirt quotes that you have read here?

Breathe

Nothing to post about today, so here we go with another writing exercise. This one is “write about combat in first person.”


Just concentrate on breathing. Breath is life. Feint. Life is breath. Parry. The flurry of activity around me is blinding, I just focus all my thoughts on the breath. Thrust. Instinct saves me. Kill. Instinct driven by countless hours of training. Parry. Spin. Instinct honed in countless melees. Pivot. Thrust. Another kill. Breathe in. Three more. Breathe out. Concentrate on the breath. Dodge. Breath is life. Lunge. Life is breath. Kick. Breathe. I am alive. I am breathing. My sword drags across one of them. I dodge the other’s lunge. Three down. Breathe in. Breathe out. They have no choice, but to attack. Breathe. I have no choice, but to kill. I make it swift. Not deep and slow like my breathing.

One more. The dance slows, but I keep my breathing steady. His breath is ragged and heavy. Breathe in. Action. Reaction. Instinct. Time slows more. Feint. Breathe out. Parry. Focus on the breathing. His breath is irrelevant. Breathe in. Move. Breathe out. Advance. Lunge. Breathe in. Retreat. Breath is life. Life is breath. Parry. Spin. Time slows even more. I see his blade. I breathe in as the blade passes. Parry. I breathe out as I move it out of the way. I slow down my breathing more. I slow down time even more. I lunge. I thrust. I parry. I breathe. He lunges. I hit. I kick. I thrust. I breathe. He doesn’t. Time speeds back up to normal, and I take a deep breath.



Meh, I am not sure if I like it, but it is only an exercise.

To recap:
I miss my constant caffeine high
Should be able to use the sink tonight
I have a dental appointment tomorrow morning
I haven’t been flossing much
Oh well
Not sure what is on tap for tomorrow’s Digital Thursday

Writing Exercise

Days where I cannot come up with a topic will involve some weird writing exercises. This one was given to me by some drunkard from my college days.

And Captain Jenkins raised what was left of his right hand to signal the final charge on the German trenches. After the first sweep of the German machine guns 90% of the charging force was stopped in the muddy wasteland between the trenches, the other 10% were being propelled skyward by the myriad of artillery fire haphazardly peppering no-man’s land and by the land mines that were now randomly strewn about the battlefield. At one time the land mines were planted in orderly rows with white picket fences (The way land mines were meant to be planted), but over the course of the war these explosive devices had been messed about all higgley-piggley and the picket fences with nice shrubberies were replaced with the metallic tasting barbed wire that one often finds keeping the cows from taking over Texas. For all know that without the wire that is barbed, the bovine revolution would have to be held in check by the sheep-herders and their flocks of wooly commandos, but that is a story for another time. This is about the fifth charge on the German trenches of the mediocre captaincy of Captain Jenkins. One would think with a name like Captain Jenkins he would be better at being a Captain, but one would be wrong and should most likely keep one’s opinions to oneself. One is awfully nosey, one is.

Captain Jenkins rallied we remaining 4 men to continue pushing toward the German lines, because that was the way of trench warfare. First Captain Jenkins would signal the charge, and then people would charge until there weren’t many people left, and then what was left of Captain Jenkins would rally what was left of his command and those 5 people would heroically dash into the German trenches to gain a new foothold for the British in France, for the sun should never set on the British Empire, unless, of course, it is night-time and then the sun shouldn’t be up at all. The second sweep of machinegun fire, of course killed the rest of us for the third time that day, but being dead merely 3 times over is not enough to stop the dogged charge of the British. Everyone knows that a Brit charging the German lines is quick like a cat and has as many lives providing the cat of comparison is not dodging busses in a busy road or placed into a cage with hungry badgers. For future reference, let’s assume all metaphors from now on imply a certain lack of hungry badgers and confined spaces. It is just safer that way, both for the badgers and for their human meals.

The five of us crested the lip of the German trench in time to see the shocked expressions of those whose conversation had just been interrupted by muddy soldiers intent on killing. Of course, by “five” I truly mean three of us, what was left of Captain Jenkins and oddly a badger in a uniform (they are sometime referred to as Scots especially if one defines “uniform” as a skirt). You can’t follow either a Scot or a badger in times of conversation that is just the way it is.

Luckily for the astonished Germans caught in betwixt conversational topics, the whistle to withdraw had been given considering our 134% personnel losses during this final charge of the day. I nicked a German biscuit and started the sloppy deadly withdrawal process of re-crossing no-man’s land, with what was left of the mediocre Captain Jenkins, a badger in a dress, and 2 other chaps with poor dental hygiene in tow.

To recap:
This weekend Little Man re-discovered Cap’n Crunch cereal
By this weekend, I mean yesterday
4.5 bowls of cereal later the roof of his mouth was hurting
So much that he decided to forego dinner
Much to his chagrin at bedtime
My stomach is a bit on the upset side today
Stupid Stomach!
Or should I say, "Stupid Stomachabitch!"