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Repeating the Punchline

I’ve chosen to spend my free Sunday morning reformatting an old laptop hard drive. I’m thus constrained to writing on the phone unless I’m planning on writing later tonight. Ha ha.

Rod Taylor’s Here, There, or Anywhere is my theme music for the moment.

Read a blog yesterday with several college writing prompts for real life. It wasn’t funny after the first couple. Essentially everything after the first was repeating the punchline. The post got me to thinking about a whole host of writing I don’t do here on 1000 Days. I’m not sure how to define it except to say the results show a clear attention to purpose and a thoughtful effort.

Instructive writing. A conveyance.

I’m about inventive writing here. My writing presumes that I’ve digested much of the world around me and that I’ve developed the skills to concoct from that meal a new thing for you to enjoy.

I wonder if I’d have more success writing more towards a purpose than creatively?

165 words on day 513

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And a Merry One at That

“You say, ‘Jun-kata’s body surfaced near the Silver Dock.’ I would say—we would say—’Jun-kata surfaced near the Silver Dock.'”

“So you don’t believe in a soul?”

“You asked that before I think. I…I don’t understand this word ‘believe’.”

“Feel…or think…or, you know, believe. You don’t think Jun-kata has a soul?”

“Have a soul? Jun-kata is a soul. I don’t have to think or to feel that he has one. He is one. He doesn’t have one somewhere else. It’s right there. Him. Jun-kata.”

92 words on day 512

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Placeholding Suckage

Let’s not kid ourselves that yesterday, today, and the next two tomorrow’s worn of 1000 Days are going to be anything but full on placeholding suckage.

If it turns out I write a single word worth reading I’ll alert you somehow. Two words strung together. I guess its pretty unlikely I could ruin a single standalone word.

Streaming worked well yesterday so here goes the same for tonight…

I’m on the front porch. Night chirps nearby and gushes further out along the several paved quarter section lines we call roads. I’m outside. I shouldn’t be angry. I’m trying not to be but I’ve stubbed my thumb throwing a fit when I couldn’t get a cabinet door closed. I suppose the ache is my punishment. I suppose this uncomfortable bench is my Purgatory.

Is going inside once I’m done my Heaven or my Hell?