(I got nuthin'.)
The analogy of using my word sprints the way a musicians plays around on their instruments continues to resonate with me. I'm enjoying these little writing bursts. I'm also liking putting them instantly into the world instead of hiding them away. One, it's not THAT brave; only a couple people visit here & I have to beg for those hits, and two, maybe someone sees them and gets something from them. Not necessarily the content itself, but the idea that not every writing sesh has to result in something permanent. Or even good. Even crawling is forward progress.
Start the clock.
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The band was loading their gear into the back of their "vintage" '87 Ford AeroStar when they saw it. It was behind a dumpster, beneath a homeless man who literally smelled like the living personification of a sour egg fart.
Johnny, the guitarist, was the first to recognize what it was. Given his upbringing in the food industry (his mom worked at Hardee's in the 80s), he quickly understood what was happening and moved to coerce Farty McChristthatstinks to move over a couple feet.
Bassists get a bad rap, but Bill sussed out what was happening within seconds of Johnny. He'd seen it and recognized, thanks to his patience and lack of ego, what it could mean for the band's future. Problem was, it apparently belonged to the homeless man.
Which, how exactly do you define ownership? Don't you have to be an actual person? Look, it can't be overstated just how bad this guy smelled. Someone who smells like that can't have a solid grasp on their sanity, much less their humanity and the concept of ownership. Fact is, it belongs where it belongs and we are the best capable to get it there.
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