I guess I could moo.

Muse Erato! Come on down… ! You’re the next contestant on ‘WTF should I write?’

I am feeling contented on this late Tuesday morning, which is creepy in and of itself, for Tuesday is the black sheep of the week, the sly, rebellious, unpredictable day. The weekly waif sporting sparkles or talons, sometimes both simultaneously.

But I am contented today; serene, peaceful, practically bovine in nature. No storms of passion, no great, soaring ambitions to shake up the pleasant routine of a Tuesday afternoon. I’m devoid of any rant-spurring grievance, or political fervor.

I have gone bucolic.

I have gone barnyard.

The only reasonable communication at this point would be some mellow lowing, but I don’t wish to attract any lonely Scotsmen who might be lurking in the area. I’m a simple girl, with simple needs: A plot of meadow, some buttercups, maybe a poem; the Wordsworth kind… one of those meandering, gentle doozies that drive you crazy if you have something better to do:

A HUMMING BEE–a little tinkling rill–

A pair of falcons wheeling on the wing…”

sigh

It is frustrating, I’ll admit, to take to a cow’s disposition so readily. I’d like to imagine my former life as something very exciting, literature provoking: A bandit, a runaway inn-keeper’s daughter, maybe a pirate. If I lived in the animal kingdom I was surely a fearsome wolf or a jaguar, rowr.

Not a strapping Guernsey named Clover Bell! Damn.

My contributions to the literary world may only have amounted to… well, calcium.

Still, don’t turn your nose up at fortified bones. Would Dickinson have written such pretty poems with a hunchback? Imagine Hemingway with osteoporosis: No big game hunting safaris for him. And Jane Austen could hardly have turned that divining nose up at high society without decent bone structure.

I guess I best not devalue my origins, but holy fuck a pirate would have been cool.

Like, moo.

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4 thoughts on “I guess I could moo.

  1. Compared to scurvy, the occasional scower is a walk in the park. Wenching and learning to shiver one’s timbers can tend to grate on one’s disposition. Aaarrrgggghhh!

  2. See, when you have nothing great to write, you still write something great. Me? I do a blogthing. That’s the difference between a writer (you) and a dabbler (me).

    Think I’ll go eat some cheese now…

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