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View from the bottom rung

Fellow once asked how I come up with ideas for the articles I write. Admittedly that can be a problem for one who prefers the creativity that wells up from within his own soul, but there’s plenty of material out there from both the past and the present upon which an older guy may draw in order to stay in business, Staying interesting is the harder thing to do.

This isn’t like the rollicking rocker who fetches along a little artificial energy to keep himself a swinging his axe and struttin’ his leather whether or not he’s in the mood to perform his music. Nor do I really care to visit my favorite syndicated columnists as some opiners have been known to do, to copy thoughts and perspectives from others or virtually download whole passages from propagandist websites or magazines that may serve to suit one’s fancy and so’s to appear as knowledgeable and professional as they. Donning an air of sophistication just ain’t proper for a lad standing ‘way down on the ladder’s bottom-most rung. I’m a house painter, not Vincent Van Gogh.

Some articles come easy, the topics rolling along like the tinkling and bubbling of springtime freshets but if the inspiration doesn’t jell the project becomes tedious and time consuming. As one might expect of a fellow who has wandered down the long trail and laid down a fair amount of footprints across the high mountains and deep valleys, the concentration is worn, the focus scuffed, tattered and patched.

The more I’m shoved against the rail the worse it is; this article is replacement for one half finished that was due today but with one punch of the key disappeared down the rat hole of cyber space, a mood killer, the set-up impossible to recall, the inspiration beyond reach of distracted finger tips. At a time my role as care-giver demands more attention.

It is not the first time articles were lost that was hours into the project, or were projects virtually finished. The curser wanders off on its own and comes to rest on some mysterious delete button of which the writer remains ignorant and it’s back to square one.

Clearly I am conflicted; on the one hand I would imagine slamming my computer down and cursing the day of its creation, on the other I can’t imagine doing what I do without it. A plus is that at my beck and call there is a list of short commentary and opinion stored away in the belly of this infernal gadget wherein much of my bloviating and opining is recorded, and these I can sift through for thoughts and opinion that might be used for filler when time grows short and an article “goes south.”

Sept. 9, observation No. 1, related topic: Can’t win, can’t place, can’t show. Evenings after 8 is the ideal time to do my heavy lifting, the chores done the news dealt with and the house gone silent for the night; left to my own devices, creativity galore one might expect. Unfortunately I seem akin to the old spring operated clock, wind me up of the morning and by nighttime I’m run down, from a spry tick tick to a lethargic tock tock. A fair amount of shoveling can be done in the space of three hours if there is energy, however at this stage I am body weary and brain dead.

Sept. 11, Syria, drums of war: A matter of judgment or conscience? Each of us have our own reasons for wanting or not wanting to become embroiled in Syria’s civil conflict – but, neither should rest in any form or fashion upon the claim that Syrian use of chemical weaponry is “inconclusive” unless he is willing to accept that the rebels gassed their own areas of support. As they say, God gave us a brain. Today is Sept. 11, a significant anniversary as one may have noticed; there are people still around who believe that the U.S. government conspired with Ben Laden to bomb the World Trade Center.

Sept 8. In a world gone mad am I “madder than most? What does one expect of Russia, that it quit sucking eggs with the collapse of the union? The U.S. has pulled some real doozies both wittingly and unwittingly throughout its history but it is doubtful that I will ever buy into a conspiracy theory that has Putin’s hand in it. We may practice political intrigue both at home and abroad but Russia yet practices political barbarism as evidenced by the poisoning deaths of members of its own citizens considered political/business adversaries or deemed enemies of the state. I imagine death by radiation might be as agonizing as death by sarin gas. Disdain for any U.S. government will never compel me to accept Putin’s word that advantages Russia over my own country; it’s a road the lefties went down during the Bush administration

With “truthers” leading a parade of weird suggestions everyone knew were lies but served the purpose and cultivated them anyway. Could be I am the nutty one but like the good book admonishes, do not chase after apparitions or every wild tale that comes down the pike.

Sept. 9. T’would be nice if this chaotic journey were as serene as the sunrise on my lower yard as here sits I by the window looking out. Soft yellow rays of early morning elixir stretching across and mixing with beds of tall orange and yellow flowers; viewed from the cross-street below are also the rich colors of zinnia and petunia. A cool gentle mixture of sunshine and shade belies the coming of oppressive afternoon heat. Once the sunshine reaches the back fence the temperature begins to build and the day begins to change; like the sun coming up and the sun going down, a time appointed. I hear there’s a small chance of rain; now wouldn’t a sprinkle or two upon this parched land hereabout do much to make this a better world?

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