[lit-ideas] Re: Pumpkin Chucking
- From: David Ritchie <ritchierd@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Wed, 7 Sep 2011 14:12:14 -0700
I can confirm that the habit of, or even short but sustained indulgence in,
writing results in withdrawal symptoms. Over the long weekend I set myself the
task of writing a one-act play. Yesterday, I finished the draft. Today I have
to prepare classes, which means reading and contemplation and planning. What
happens when I sit still and try to perform these tasks? Well first Garden Guy
arrives and says that this is the middle Tuesday or Wednesday in September and
so it's his day to work. Also that his body double in now playing for the L.A.
Galaxy. Half an hour of chat about what I'd like him to do--other than go
away--ensues. Then, as I settle again, like a cat reminded that boxes are fun,
my mind urges movement towards the computer.
This is consequently a partly therapeutic note, an indulgence before I return
to a book about--what else would one read about on a sunny day in the
garden--the AK47, and another about the history of humanity and weapons.
Today's newspaper reported a tale straight out of Alexander McCall-Smith, so
good and awful that it need not necessarily be true. A fellow in Zimbabwe
found, after stopping for drinks at an illegal bar, that the twenty mental
patients he was supposed to be transporting from Harare to Bulawayo had
vanished. "Not wanting to admit his incompetence, the driver went to a nearby
bus stop and offered everyone waiting there a free ride. He then delivered the
passengers to the mental hospital, telling the staff that the patients were
very excitable and prone to bizarre fantasies. The deception wasn't discovered
for three days."
One more act of postponement: I have just, for benefit of video camera, heaved
J.'s pumpkin off our balcony. The backstory: J. bought (or possibly was given)
a small pumpkin last Thanksgiving. Since it was in fine health, she decided to
keep it as a pet. When we were loading the car in L.A. early this summer, she
insisted that space be made for "Eric." Up with us Eric, the P., came. On
arrival, he was placed on the mantel, where finally he began to rot, proving by
sacrificial example that our summer has been damp. Rather than just put him on
the compost heap, we decided to go for a more Viking kind of send-off. Hence
the shot-put chuck. No doubt it's already to be found somewhere on YouTube.
Carry on.
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