South of the Gnat Line: It's Friday and That's All I Got

It can be a peculiar thing to be a writer. Writers love words, use words, neeeeed words to generate a pause for thought, a soft laugh or something along those lines to pass along and convey whatever is on the writer’s radar-mindset and clearly needs to be shared with anyone willing to read along – or better yet ‘play along’.

But what happens when the words won’t come?

Where are those lettered combinations of language that effectively express the matter of the moment?

Do words have that much power? Can they vaporize out of sight or thought?

Those who know me know I am a social bug with verbal skills that could exhaust an ENtire army. As a result, writing becomes an extension of my neeeeeeed to express myself. So how is it that on this Friday in late June, all my words are missing?

They’ve picked themselves up and left the Dirt Road.

*POOF*

First, let’s remove the fodder words: “Hello” is a fodder word. The phone rings and upon answering I say, “Hello”. “Hello” doesn’t count and is exempt from the missing mass of words that have left my universe today.

More fodder words: “How are you?” “Fine, and you?” “Fine.”

I repeat: Fodder.

Then there’s the weather. Even more fodder. Do you really want a Dirt Road Weather Report? I can provide you with a concise weather report that includes my all access to online satellite imagery direct from the National Weather Service (impressive – huh?).

It rained yesterday afternoon. Today it’s hot. It’s humid. No, it’s MUGGY. The sky is blue with white fluffy clouds slurring around thinking about merging this afternoon in order to rain right about the time I decide to go outside to accomplish something like cleaning boogers out of Buttermilk’s nose. The satellite imagery shows that it’s a NO BEACH day along the panhandle of Florida and Mississippi and Alabama are under siege by a huge blue and red blob that has settled on top of them. That very same blob should show up over here in a couple of days, unless it breaks up or the wind moves it north/northeast. Cuba doesn't have a dry spot to stand in. Tomorrow will be a repeat of today.

There. Fodder.

No real words – no words of passion or persuasion or thought provoking moments of wonder. Fodder.

*POOF*

(sigh)

I repeat: It’s Friday and that’s all I got.

HKJ