I used to be a writer. (I mean, I used to write.) These days, I write in the Associated Press style (AP) news articles, local sports and county board stories…. But I used to write for release, to empty my head of thoughts or bothers…

Recently I received an email from EditRed telling me that they were shutting their website down, and all of the writings posted on the online portfolio would be erased. I quickly signed in to retrieve some of my work, as that was the only place I’d stored a lot of it. Reading through those old writings, I realized… I USED to be a writer.

Here are a few “samples” from those works:

My subconscious is a pre-cog
This morning I thought, “Gosh, self – there’s a lot of things you’re just not getting done. Why does it seem you’re doing more and getting less done?” Well, my self didn’t answer. Instead, it looked over at the coffee pot on the desk next to my actual desk in my tiny little office and noted that the one inch of coffee left on the bottom of the pot was covered in two inches of mold. Note to self: “Clean Coffee Pot”.

My house is a bit on the spooky side. Perhaps it’s my recent watching of too many horror films in honor of the upcoming Halloween holiday that’s got me on high alert, but the dog seems to think so too. Yes, every morning at about 1 a.m. the dog goes nuts barking at the staircase. The metal letters that make up part of the word HOPE on the shelf too high for me to reach uprighted without anyone in the house wanting to claim responsibility for having climbed atop something and uprighted them. Then there’s my subconscious.

My subconscious, (Ethel) was making mental notes as I walked through the house. It noted that the candle should be blown out. Then as I turned to do so, I noted the candle was smoking. It had already gone out. Of course, given the current high alert status, this was also creepy.

Anyway, so Ethel told me this morning that I shouldn’t get out of bed because it was going to be “one of those days”. I’ve been having “one of those days” a lot lately. I like to refer to it commonly as kicking the dead horse. It happens rather frequently this time of year. Businesses start to run out of advertising budget funds and everyone gets worked up for the holidays and forgets about the paper. People are busy or the weather (which is usually cooler and rainy as of late in this area this time of year) gets everybody into a crab-assy mindset. So you see, I spend my days as of late “kicking the dead horse” trying to dredge up some final business for the last couple of months of 2007 while preparing all of the paper work to jump into 2008 with a bang while the advertising budgets are huge.

This makes both Ethel and I crabby. Neither one of us enjoys the world of “advertising” as such. We’d much rather be writing. Well, I would write – Ethel just hangs around and inserts an idea here and there and makes sure we remember to get up and use the potty every once in awhile

Well there’s another thing. My use of the word “potty”. It seems that on occassions such as this I end up speaking as if my children are present at all times. They’re not. It’s not a “potty” room. Damnit. Cuss. Cuss. Cuss.

And again – it’s raining. It’s day number…. five? of this and I grow tired of it. I hear tomorrow’s supposed to be nice. Well, shucks – I’ll be on a trip where I likely won’t see much of the outdoors anyway. No sunlight for me. Or Ethel, but then she’s used to it.

Random Jot #7
Wait; for words have power. Life begins with words and ends with words. All that is in between is pages of a book. Hours pass in moments. Words appear and disappear. At times our words touch, overlap, dance seductively around each other.

Random Jot #18
Walls fall around me, soft thuds rather than the familiar thundering crash. Something is wrapping ’round me, warming cold skin – places forgotten.

The unplanned occurrence can be the salvation of what you’ve become… I’m awake again.

Random Jot #77
A nurse enters, sticks an needle in his I.V. She explains that she is giving him a sedative as he has just had a panic attack. A lump rises in my throat at the same time a rock drops through my stomach. My eyes burn and threaten to spill over. She leaves and we sit in silence a bit more. He starts to talk, but his voice is weak. His deep booming voice that has helped to change laws that have made our lives better today. His deep booming voice that sang my praises and got me where I am today, now barely above a whisper. He tells me what they’ve been doing with him in the hospital and what the diagnosis is. He tells me how he will go see the specialist. I am unable to answer or even shake my head, as the motion might make the tears spill over. I sit staring at his hands. Those large strong hands are now weak and frail, two flat white rags laid over his stomach motionless, stuck with I.V. needles. I’d always been fascinated by Curt’s hands, as they are the one thing that remained untouched by polio and old age. No matter how shrunken his legs got over time in the wheel chair, no matter how slouched his shoulders, his hands stayed large and strong… to remind everyone that this was a man that before polio stood almost seven feet tall with broad shoulders and your typical football player build. A man of power. And there lay his hands, weak and nearly useless across his stomach filled with cancer.

Random Jot #92
His black eyebrows are caterpillars, now set low to his green eyes. His nose straight and strong, the hair on his face unshaven for two days now, making a dark pattern across the bottom half. His skin smooth and pale. He is smiling. He rarely smiles. He takes life too seriously. He is so beautiful when he smiles.

Random Jot #94
Arms, legs, hands and feet felt like they were not my own, pressing my hands to my the ground felt like anchoring. I wiggled my bare toes against the stones, a pebble pressing the bottom of the big toe on my left foot with each downward motion. Room service has long since delivered the life supporting caffeinated goodness and I lift my cup from the stone and let the steam tickle my nostrils for a bit before pressing the hot ceramic to my lip. The heat feels good. It is cool enough to see your breath and this is a feeling I rather enjoy. All is good in life.

Advertisements