Whine Whine Whine

Writing, from my perspective, is both tedious and stimulating. It combines elements of torture and elation, though not always at the same time. Perhaps the most important aspect of writing for me is its ability to prove to me that I can still think and that my imagination remains active and flexible. And that, somewhere inside me, a sliver of creativity exists that has the potential of breaking through, shattering an underlying layer of depression and anxiety.  Many days I find my fingers wandering aimlessly over the keyboard, tapping out words for no other reason than to keep my hands busy. On occasion, though, those same fingers seem to have a purpose—a reason beyond keeping company with the other prisoners affixed to the end of my hand. Today, those same fingers only pretend to have a purpose. They try to convince me that they can express a grand theme; but I know better. One of them, still aching and tender from an attempt to hold onto the leash of a neighbor’s powerful dog, screams at me to stop typing. The others urge me to ignore the whiner and allow them to release ribbons of text that might become a powerful piece of short fiction or, if I give them time, a novel with both intellectual substance and entertainment value. I cannot be fooled. The whiner, while perhaps overly dramatic in insisting he is in agony, must be given his due. I will make this morning’s needless ramble somewhat short.

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Though I did not watch the game, I know this morning that the Los Angeles Rams defeated the Cincinnati Bengals in a tight, 23 to 20 Super Bowl.

I know, too—thanks to a friend’s posting of a video showing how chickens are horribly, inexcusably abused by this country’s greed-driven leaders in poultry production—that henceforth I will allow myself to buy chicken only from sellers that can believably assert their humane treatment of the creatures before and during slaughter.

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My poor, whining ring finger can no longer tolerate this abuse. I fear I may have sprained it, though it looks just like the other fingers. Maybe some Motrin or aspirin will magically heal it. Until it’s better, I’ll rest the poor dear. At least for a while.