Literary Chili

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Sometimes, here amid life in paradise, the sparks just don’t fly. I’ve been buying time all day, and it’s just about to exceed my credit line.

Yeah, that one, too, but what I’ve been doing today is little things to bide my time until that great, daily burst of creative force arrives, shaking the dishes and causing the satellite to reset.

I folded clothes, matched socks, switched a load of wash to the dryer, and got another load of wash started. I washed the dishes. I fixed breakfast. I played my guitar. I wrote some emails. I balanced my checking accounts. I transferred some funds. I watched William Powell foil the Germans on TCM for about fifteen minutes. I pondered the weather. I read a few pages. I surfed the net.

Nothing. Well, this. Ain’t much to it.

Right now, everything is still swirling a bit. It’s synonymous with what I called “mulling time” a day or two ago. The mixture isn’t yet right. It’s not the right consistency. It needs thickening and more seasoning.

It’s chili.


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