My brains seem empty. That oft-played scenes in Westerns, with the tumbleweeds tumbling across the landscape. Yes, that is my brain right now. Eastern Oregon does indeed have the tumblin’ tumbleweeds. They pile up along the fences, or among the piles of debris, irrigation pipes, parked farm equipment. You carry them over to the burn barrel or the spot designated as the ‘burn spot’. The flames so satisfying! At least to me. I am something of a firebug. I do love to set fires. A rake, a box of matches, a weedy bank or stretch, I am a peaceful, happy collection of bones, skin and muscle.
This weekend, I do plan on attending a writer’s workshop. It’s free and offered in Nampa, Idaho, by the Death Rattle crew. Maybe my sluggish gray matter will burn those tumbleweeds to ash as it offers me a bit of a rush or even a new Idea. Or the needed impetus to work on a neglected project.
So, I’ll make this short and end with a poem…
Be happy or there’s hell to pay.
Smile or they won’t leave you alone.
Pretend real hard and post pictures of bread
you made while saving pennies
to buy cat food if you get to retire.
Put a grin on your face
or get called names
or be asked why you hate
Be terribly happy
or be labeled a traitor.
Wave that flag
until you dislocate your shoulder.