An hour and a half. Just sitting and thinking. My mind runs up one rabbit trail and follows it to a dead end. I pick up the thread of a thought a moment later and hold it in my head for a few moments, but…it is nothing. I sat down in front of the computer to write and, as determined as I am to accomplish the task, nothing comes. Perhaps it’s just as well. There have been a few nights that I have forced the ideas onto the screen in front of me and they fall reluctantly into place, griping and complaining all the while. The finished product is less than spectacular. You’ve probably read one or two of those over the last few months.
The other night as we stood studying the campfire, my grandsons begged to roast their own marshmallows. I agreed to help and so, we headed for the edge of the fire, marshmallows ensconced on skewers, to take a shot at roasting the perfect marshmallows. It was a mixed success, which is to say, it was a disaster. The younger of the two children, always the adventurous one, placed his skewer right down next to the coals even as I warned against a conflagration (in easier to understand words, of course). The older one, not wanting to brave the heat of close proximity, barely held his over the flame at all, so it was a slow, painstaking process. As expected, soon the puffy roasters belonging to the younger boy burst into flame. Quickly blowing out the flames and asking him to wait, I again turned my attention to the older boy, intent upon cooking his to perfection. After a few moments, he agreed that they were a probably okay (even though there was no outward sign of them being done) and he was content. We headed for the table to build the ‘Smores with chocolate bars and graham crackers. The younger lad finished making his and began to consume it with fervor, despite the extremely charred exterior. As the older child finished his creation, he put it to his mouth, only to draw it immediately out. “Oh!” He exclaimed. “What? Is it too hot?” his mom asked. “No. I just remembered. I don’t like marshmallows.” He refused to eat any of it.
So, lest that also be your response to a poorly thought out post, I think I’ll quit while I’m ahead. No incinerated, overdone thoughts, thrown desperately into place; not even any undercooked, barely warm ideas, which need more time to simmer and soften. Maybe tomorrow’s menu will be more appetizing and better planned.
One can always hope.
“In laboring to be concise, I become obscure.”
(Horace~Ancient Roman Poet~65 BC-8 BC)