Life imitating art, etc.

In my car with the windows down and stopped at a light,
the engine's idle in my ear,
sounding
low, burbly, and familiar...
- organic and mechanized all at the same time -
like a stream, synthesized.

Reminded me of the opening to this song:

 

Bartelby Scrivener

I  am once again a child playing with crayons and pen tops.

There's a bit in a book somewhere with God as an old man living in a cottage, who each and every morning gets out a paper and pen, not writing, but playing, discovering new combinations and relationships between the two items. In childlike simplicity or senile dementia seems to be the question.

And I can't seem to stop f*cking with this photo.

Truculence

 Took a pretty good spill from my bike on Thursday.

Yes I'm retarded.
No I'm not politically correct. Moving right along...

The bitch of it is I injured my left hand - heard a sound like a dry branch cracking when i dove off - (and why would I do that you might ask, dive off of  a perfectly good bike? I'll try get to that in a bit) and right now I'm typing this pretty much one handed.

One hand and something vaguely resembling a ham hock.

Add to that the fact that my antiquated mac isn't quite synching with the blog anymore and I need to edit everything in HTML and, well, I'm tempted to publish this as is if for no other reason than to amuse myself.

Maybe "amuse" isn't quite the word I'm looking for.

Meanwhile, dear reader (and yes, I'm realize I'm gettin' all 19th century on your asses but truculence feels appropriate right now) I must shuffle off to pre-count widgets in preparation for next week's inventory.

My point?

Who the hell knows.

(more later)