I am watching high cumulus clouds drift from northwest to southeast. The sun has fallen southward. I walked out this morning into cooler air. It is the air that raises false expectations. The heat will return, though nobody wants it. We envy reports from other parts of the country. But today, we can pretend.
I just don't have the energy for writing yet. I've been sitting here and trying, but I can't seem to pay attention. I have opened the doors and windows to feel the chill. Birds sing. Dogs bark. It is not all pastoral, though. Somewhere a truck is backing up with its required tranquility-busting "beep, beep, beep."
I just tried another piece of writing that I could not finish. It is just not time. Here are the hour's wages.
but it's not the hour you receive wages for it's the value you bring to the hour...not sure who said that...wasn't me 'cause some of my hours are not too valuable...hope you keep feeling better and can grasp the writing by the horns again...
ReplyDelete"Why didn't you let him stay and drink?" the unhurried waiter asked. They were putting up the shutters. "It is not half-past two."
ReplyDelete"I want to go home to bed."
"What is an hour?"
"More to me than to him."
"An hour is the same."
"You talk like an old man yourself. He can buy a bottle and drinkat home."
"It's not the same."
"No, it is not," agreed the waiter with a wife. He did not wish to be unjust. He was only in a hurry.
"And you? You have no fear of going home before your usual hour?"
"Are you trying to insult me?"
(A Clean, Well-Lighted Place, E.H.)