I was writing the other day and as usual most of what I was writing was incoherent. The weather’s getting nice and I can leave the windows open. At my last house where I lived for almost 33 years, none of the windows had screens so I never flung the windows open to sleep with fresh air blowing on me because I was pretty sure that a ten pound spider would crawl in and set up house in my ears. Or my mouth. Dear God. But now I live in a house with screens. So I’m scribbling away, talking to myself because that’s what I do.
Me: I can look out my window while I write!
Me: Kids are playing! There weren’t any kids in my last neighborhood.
Me: I hope that Russian lady with the scarf on her head doesn’t kick that cat again.
Me: It’s so great to hear kids playing, singing songs, chasing each other.
Me: How come when I spell HOUSE and then say it five times in a row it doesn’t sound like a real word anymore?
Me: The kids that live next door are sitting under my window.
Me: If all the windows are screened why is there a fly the size of a blimp running into walls and my coffee cup?
Me: Oh, those neighbor girls and their giggles. Now they’re singing their little hearts out.
Me: What was a I trying to write?
Me: I wish those kids would shut the fuck up.