Thurs., March 29, 42 A.B.
It's now been three days since I've touched a faucet.
It's really amazing what one can accomplish once one stops spending all one's time checking to see which knob makes the cold water gush out and which knob makes... makes...
Just a second....
Whew - that was close!! Good thing I posted a big "DANGER! LICE-INFESTED RADIATION INSIDE THIS DARK ROOM IN USE!" sign on my laundry room door just to prevent accidental slip-ups like that from happening!
Anyway, as I was saying... It's really amazing how much one can accomplish once one stops doing all other things.
Last night, for example, I started catching up on my reminiscing. In fact, before bedtime, I'd managed to thoroughly re-familiarize myself with a field trip my second grade class once took to a bar. We learned all about how drunks are made, then got to take turns sweeping up the place with a genuine Bar Room Broom.
This morning I got up bright and early and spent a few hours trying to find my souvenir empty from that trip, thinking I might be able to scan and share the very educational label with you all, then I remembered - Johnny Muelster suckered me out of it back in junior high. Johnny always was a "brat," if you know what I mean, but never more so than the time he convinced me that the local medical college was experiencing a terrible shortage of specimen bottles to put their formaldehyded dead babies in. It was back during the Vietnam War, so it kinda made sense. I mean, Nixon was using B-52s to drop everything from bombs to napalm to Agent Orange on the Vietnamese, and I figured specimen bottles were next after having had their unlucky number come up in some sort of lottery. Anyway, Johnny painted such an awful picture of our local medical researchers having to resort to stuffing their dead babies in leaky milk cartons, hastily emptied cologne bottles, and even unattended shopping carts that I went right home and got my prized empty for him to put in the special donation box he claimed had been set up right outside his house. Man, let me tell you: When I finally figured out I'd been snookered by that weasel-faced little "brat," I immediately tracked down and phoned the college dorm he was staying in and left a message with the front desk that I bet is still giving him nightmares.
Today I actually found the time to get back into fiction writing a bit.
For years I've had this idea that it's time for Aesop's Fables to be updated in such a way that the reader doesn't have to think at all about what the moral of the story might be or wonder if it's something he or she might learn from. I mean, we have enough worries in life without fables and stories giving us more, you know? So I figured a new version of Aesop's work which didn't put any burden on the head or the heart was sure-fire bestseller material just begging to be penned.
This afternoon I sketched out my version of "The Boy Who Cried Wolf."
Here it is:
"The Boy Who Cried Wolf Underwater" by Birtchop
There once was an Ohio boy who had the urge to cry "Wolf!" underwater even though all the wolves had been driven to extinction in Ohio many years before. One day, he finally gave in to his urge and drowned. This is the sort of thing wise people call a "self-correcting problem" just before shrugging and getting on with their lives.
That's all for today.
At this stage of my recovery, I'm sure it's important not to overdo....
(© In The Moment by Zen Master DJ)