Oh, this could be addictive.
I’m wearing my favorite pj’s, blogging from the farm. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we in the country have entered the modern era with them computers that talk to each other and such like. Admittedly, it’s a very thin pipe. Hair-thin, in fact. But it’s there, and darn it, I’m a-gonna use it.
It’s that kind of night. As I drove back from a meeting earlier, I opened my sunroof and stuck my hand out, playing with the air. Made me all giddy. My brain started spouting phrases that made no sense, like “denuding the moon juice”. I have no idea what that means, but man, I love the way it rolls off the tongue. Moods like this are what writers wait for: when the words start banging their way in and won’t take “no” for an answer. In these moods I write poems that prompt responses like “Are you sure she’s never dropped acid?” (Fact: actual response to some of my stuff.) I flatter myself that I have that much in common with one of my all-time favorite characters in fiction, Dorothy Sayers’ Lord Peter Wimsey:
“…Do you find it easy to get drunk on words?”
“So easy that, to tell you the truth, I am seldom perfectly sober. Which accounts for my talking so much.”
Off to let the intoxicating little buggers trip off the pen. And to let this poor stretched misery of a pipe get some well-deserved rest. Goo’night!
As you may have figured, I actually had to wait till the next morning to post this. That po’ li’l hair pipe snapped last night.