I’ve been waiting for the Muses (or somebody like them) to deliver onto me a theophany but alas no such luck. I haven’t a scrap of inspiration. Sometimes (like now) I start typing hoping a preternatural entity will come and take over my fingers like a ouija board. Let’s see if by the end of the entry I put out something brilliant or mere rubbish.
I suppose the Muses haven’t been able to get in a word even if they wanted to, as work and entertaining a guest has had precedent.* Happily, the guest doesn’t need much attention. He seems content to lie outside in a bathing suit although it is only in the mid- to upper 70s. He points out this is glorious weather compared to the cimmerian Chicago winter he has to endure. Yesterday we took him the Botanical Gardens and everyone got a little too much sun. We all dropped dead by 9PM. Gads, but it’s tiring being old.
“There’s work to be done” – indeed! I need to finish my paperwork, sew a shirt, go to the gym, and read blogs which have been neglected for a week. On the gay agenda Someone and I will take said guest to The Bunkhouse for afternoon beers, so he can once more sit outdoors in the horrible wholesome sunshine before packing up to fly back to Land of Perpetual Snow and Ice.
Somebody – or Somebodies – have dropped a tiny pebble of a potential topic into the pool of my psyche, causing a tiny ripple throughout my consciousness. It’s about ‘them bloggers I read and them bloggers who comment”. They suggest I write a blog post on this disproportionate number, estimated at 10:1 (or so they claim). This doesn’t sound like the Muses, the Norns, the Fates, or even the Furies – but the Skanks. I suppose when your B&B is in desperate straits one can’t be too choosey about who stays there, but I will tell them I am booked; they should try Motel 6 or one of the bloggers on my roster list.
Blogger-buddies who got this far may take heed they may soon be thinking of blogging on this divine if uncharitable topic.
* The other activity diverting me from blogging is sewing. I am working long hours trying to get a shirt completed by Thursday. I’m living in a sweat-shop. But I make myself stop every three hours for water breaks.