Saturday ruminations

     Sipping tea steeped from teabags Lily Langois bought in Barcelona back in July.  Feels like ages ago,  that journey, worlds ago.  Honey and milk added, good.  Clears the mind.  What was the name of that store, hmm, and what street was it on?  A picture would jog the memory.  They're so handy.  I like tea.

     I just recently switched a normal folding chair for a big purple exercise ball to sit on here at my desk.  It is said to be better for your back and posture than a standard chair.  I don't know about the truth of that advice on sitting isometrics.  I sense my back aching now, sitting on this ball of air.  Though I do enjoy thinking on the act of sitting on a rubber ball inflated with air while I blog away.  It somehow adds a peculiar stamp of non-legitimacy to my writing's content, allowing my mind to wander off, drift into this place, then that place, mentally free associate.  Give my dirigible a pass.  All clear.  Airhead blogging, as it were.  I haven't typed that phrase, "as it were," since  university.  Sounds so collegiate.  

     Yes indeed, I once, years ago, wrote with a certain brand of self-righteous levity.  Don't ask me why any self-respecting writer would tag such an imprecise phrase as having "levity."  But this is what I mean when I say that writing one's blog while sitting on a big purple rubber ball filled with air can be so liberating.  All you need to do to stir the mental pot when you brain becomes cottony and ceramic is push down on your feet and rotate your hips in little circles.  Ten circles later, the ideas will sprout like gangbusters.  A bumper crop of brilliantly turn phrases, a tract of maxims worthy to be .pamphleted and handed out on Christmas Day instead of candy canes.  Tie a string to one or two and hang them from door jambs and kitchen entrance ways instead of mistletoe.  The possibilities defy imagination.  Don't they?

     I'm considering taking a picture of myself atop this purple sphere, blogging.  The dream may vanish, however.  The thought bubble might just go pop.  Instead, I may consider reading through to the end of the final chapter of "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, A Year of Food Life," B. Kingsolver's nonfiction narrative about farm living out East.  How long have I been reading this book?  These days, too long.  Milk toast.  Just wanted to write that.