Morning Pages Day 1 -- Jan 4, 2022

Morning pages, my wazoo. I don’t relish the idea of spewing out this kind of tripe first thing in the morning. Oh, GOD, single spaced—this is going to take FOREVER. Hmm. Maybe a few paragraph breaks will ease the burden.

Tada. I’m racing through this exercise in free associative writing like a barrel racer with a grudge. So what? So, who will care? No one is ever supposed to read this, not even myself. It is only an exercise.

I would much prefer to be daintily extricating my dreams from the milieu of my foggy morning consciousness, liberating them before their entire world collapses into a 2 dimensional folded cardboard box, compressed, zipped and archived in my subconscious. To bring dreams into the world of reality seems like a more worthwhile task than, say, taking what is akin to a literary dump first thing in the morning.

The Morning Pages are an exercise that I am trying out as a way to become unblocked. It isn’t even meant to be practice writing, more like scribbling with the pen to get the ink to come out properly before even attempting to write. It is just one of many such exercises recommended in the book "The Artist’s Way," a new age classic about how to release your inner artist or some such pop psychological bullshit.

I don’t know about any inner anything. I just know that three pages of this shit is going to get boring real fast. Actually, this has been boring right out of the gate. And if I’m bored, you’re bored. Let’s be bored together.

“Bored, floored, Ford, Fjord,” Floyd Patterson prattled on about the pot roast.

Egads. This is like trying to fill a life up with the minutia of the daily activities of living. No major events, just – get up, pee, brush teeth, pop onto my phone for a quick game of Words With Friends (against the computer, of course; my friends don’t have time for such a wasteful expenditure of resources).

It appears to me that I’m just trying to get through the day, the week, my life without any fanfare, milestones of achievement and especially, without any struggles.

“No work, no reward,” superego Bob says. I call my superego Bob.

When I was talking with my mom the other day, I sneezed and she said, “Bob bless you.” It’s a joke she picked up from one of the grandkids. I don’t know what the joke is, but I appreciate any nod to irreverence, so I think I’ll try out the practice. Now, I just have to wait for someone to sneeze.

Maybe, I’ll redact all of my writing, replacing the word God with Bob. If anything, it will elevate some random guy to god status, and the real God, whomever He/She/It is, wherever they reside, will just remain that much more of a mystery, something one doesn’t talk about or refer to by name. Perhaps, He will appreciate me not taking His name in vain, although vanity seems to be one of His more abundant traits. 

I don’t know how Bob is going to feel about all the extra attention, though. He’s going to be getting a lot of unwarranted blame and become the go-to guy for rounding out curses. “Bobdammit, I wish to Bob that hadn’t happened. Look what a Bobawful mess I’ve gotten myself into.” Perhaps, Bob will appreciate all the credit that he’s going to get for things he had nothing to do with. “Thank Bob that whole cancer thing worked out. Praise Bob. What a beautiful sunset.”

Hmm. That wasn’t much of a filler. This is going to be, like I said, an exercise in wasteful expenditure of writing and time resources. I’m burning my candle, and for what? I could be writing about things, people, places that matter. I could be putting my REAL thoughts on paper, not just opening and closing the water valve to make sure that stuff can flow out.

Oh, wait. I know. This is just the warm-up. The pre-game show. The sound check. Nothing needs to be accomplished here. Kind of like how I am living my life these days: no goals or expectations, just one foot in front of the other, plodding down a familiar path, inching toward my final destination, just going through the motions -- I am on autopilot, the conscious decision maker having exited the airplane.

I’m obsessed with my friend Emery’s life. She confides her little (and big) daily struggles with me, and I find myself in a mentor uncle confidante role. She is 27 and lives at home with her mom and dysfunctional dad. That is a redundant phrase, “dysfunctional dad.” Aren’t they all dysfunctional?

Why did I mention Emery? Oh, yeah, because she is doing things to make sure that her life doesn’t turn out like mine, a stale routine of mundane non-activities, bland days, strung together into a monochromatic tapestry of sameness. She’s jumped out of an airplane, taken a trip to France, rage quit a job she didn’t like, in short, lived like a badass, like a fat kid at a buffet. I want to be like that.

So, here I am, doing this exercise from the book she recommended, flapping my wings in the wind and waiting for liftoff. Am I flying yet? Let me check…nope. Not even close.

I am, however, eating up valuable time. Perhaps, that is what is to be gleaned from this exercise. Learn the value of currency by wasting it. Soon (although not soon enough) I will have reached the end of these three mandatory pages. Then I will have squandered my daily allowance of creativity on gum, a substance of no nutritive value that just makes your jaws tired after all that practice chewing.

Dumb dee dee. I should be making a shopping list right now. I have to go to the store today, and I’d like to get an early start. I’ll never get done with that chore if I spend all morning on this one. I’m thinking of what constitutes writing, anyway; is it the mere plopping down of words on media, paper or electronic? Maybe, I will just include my shopping list, and that way I can multi-task this bitch.

So, without further ado:

Walmart

Kitty litter

Mouthwash

Toothpaste

Kitty food (wet and dry)

Prescription at pharmacy (and inquire about COVID booster)

There was something else, I was hoping it would come to me. I don’t know. Look for a belated Christmas gift for Denise? I don’t know what to get her. She got me some white chocolate (wrapped in a Dove soap box). Remind me to relate that story later if I’m still on this exercise, and I’ve run out of content. She also got me a flannel nightshirt and some scented candles, all thoughtful gifts.

I’m not doing well with being a thoughtful boyfriend. And I don’t know that I really approve of that term “boyfriend.” I mean, she’s a couple of years older than I am, but we are both full-grown adults.

I refer to her as my “lady friend.” It sounds more ambiguous, less committed, I know. I got it from my Uncle Bill, who used to refer to a novelty blow up doll as his lady friend. It was a non-functional inflatable hooker that someone had given him as a gag.

I don’t mean to imply anything about Denise by this association. I just think we’re both too old to be calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend. Maybe I’ll broach the subject next time she refers to me as her boyfriend, and request that she henceforth refer to me as her “gentleman friend.” Tit for tat, or tit for other tit, as it may be.

I need to get going on my shopping day duties, so guess what? This is going to be my last paragraph. Oh, lookie! There’s the end of the page. Thank Bob!