I suck at this..
I've never gotten into posting properly, but I do want to flex my writing a bit more, so I am now vowing (to myself) that I will post at least three days a week. I'll try some memes, some writing exercises, and perhaps even doing some actual journaling. But I've been too stagnant, and something has to give. This is it.
Today's exercise comes from http://www.wakeupwriting.com/archives/date/2008/03/ and is the March 21 entry
As usual the coffee served at the diner was lukewarm and barely drinkable. I sat in the booth next to "mine." My nightly stop was going about as well as the rest of my day had.
Woke up late. Missed bus. Stained shirt at lunch. Missed deadline on report. Called on the carpet. Spilled copier toner all over floor, paper, and pants. Mom didn't recognize me during today's visit. Get here, my normal table's taken. All that's left is the booth with the wobbly table next to the door.
Lynn comes over to top me up. Asks if I know what I want tonight. I don't really feel like anything. Looking at the menu seems too much effort. I order whatever's the special. Her eyebrows raise in a sympathetic way. She doesn't ask anything, though. She's never once asked anything. Just greets me with a lukewarm smile to go with the coffee.
I've been eating dinner here everyday except Saturdays for seven months, two weeks, and three days. It's a couple buildings down from the station I catch the bus at for visiting Mom. She's been in that home, getting the same food all that time, plus Saturdays. Is forgetting the grinding routine 90 percent of the time a blessing for her? Is my remembrance for the better? For which of us will her eventual passing be the greater mercy?
Today's exercise comes from http://www.wakeupwriting.com/archives/date/2008/03/ and is the March 21 entry
As usual the coffee served at the diner was lukewarm and barely drinkable. I sat in the booth next to "mine." My nightly stop was going about as well as the rest of my day had.
Woke up late. Missed bus. Stained shirt at lunch. Missed deadline on report. Called on the carpet. Spilled copier toner all over floor, paper, and pants. Mom didn't recognize me during today's visit. Get here, my normal table's taken. All that's left is the booth with the wobbly table next to the door.
Lynn comes over to top me up. Asks if I know what I want tonight. I don't really feel like anything. Looking at the menu seems too much effort. I order whatever's the special. Her eyebrows raise in a sympathetic way. She doesn't ask anything, though. She's never once asked anything. Just greets me with a lukewarm smile to go with the coffee.
I've been eating dinner here everyday except Saturdays for seven months, two weeks, and three days. It's a couple buildings down from the station I catch the bus at for visiting Mom. She's been in that home, getting the same food all that time, plus Saturdays. Is forgetting the grinding routine 90 percent of the time a blessing for her? Is my remembrance for the better? For which of us will her eventual passing be the greater mercy?