This morning it occurred to me that I’m almost due for some news. I am like a reverse vacuum cleaner of worldly events, filling up on nothing. But even the darkest void will demand emptying on occasion, so I may turn on the television or pick up a paper. Has the world missed me? How is it getting on?
I always had this idea that worrying about the news was an exercise in deceit. That at the core of every disaster and horror story lied the one single important question - well yea, sure, but what about me?
I am drinking re-warmed coffee this morning, left over from yesterday afternoon. That is my breaking news. It might be labeled a sad, pathetic story about the poor, or perhaps read with an upbeat, ecologically sound, save the whales sort of tempo.
I should talk about writing, and the difference between loving your mother and loving fried chicken, and why people who write will say things all the time that they aren’t actually thinking.
Sip. Not bad. Like a three day vacation to Nebraska. Could be better, but I’m happy with anything I can get.
Hey, the guys are here, ready to work, and here I was, thinking that I’d continue on with the Influence story about fathers and sons. Nope, not now. But my living room is piled high with boxed toys, and that, my friends, is this morning’s foreshadowing.
Sip. Did I say Nebraska? I meant southeastern South Dakota, near Revillo, where I once met a girl who ran so fast she disappeared. My coffee doesn’t taste quite like the girl, but more like the letters she’d write. Did she sign the letters with love? I can’t honestly remember. Just like if I waited long enough, I wouldn’t remember if this coffee was ever actually fresh, which of course, by then, wouldn’t matter.
I’m sure that girl loved me just like fresh coffee, which I know, doesn’t make much sense. We were kids, nothing more. We hated coffee. I’m not even sure we’d heard of it yet.