| Biographical Fiction posted November 30, 2022 |
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You'll find my mind is a ...
A Plenitudinous Mind
by Tom Horonzy
This quote, "... from New Year's Day to the last of December," comes from John Bunyan's, Pilgrim's Progress, which had me think of my life overall and what turns the dial of my internal clock. In short, what makes me tick?
Truth be told, I do not know, but what I do know is I can screw around with the best minds in the universe without a second thought. Intentionally unintentional, I think. Learned it from my dad. He was monikered [sic] to be the master of disaster. No, not Apollo Creed, but the king of kibitzers. He was taught by the best ballplayers of a Philadelphia Athletic farm club and companions on the Pennsylvania Railroad. The stories he told, though, were R-rated. Not mine. As a parochial graduate, I watch my p's and q's. Dad drank his. (P's and Q's, by the way, translate to Pints and Quarts.)
One source for my nonconforming nuances can be found on FanStory.com, where wannabe authors post various writings. They compose lunes, haikus, short stories, sonnets, plays, and chapters of novels that drone on endlessly, unlikely to be printed by a publishing house. A perfect place for my scribbling because I don't care if I am ever published. I write for myself first and then for whoever peruses me. I hope to bring them joy, not grief.
"What do I write," you ask? It might be any genre. I alternate through romance, comedy, faith-based testimonials, and fractured fairy tales previously written by well-known writers, yet sometimes I create my own.
My sources? Perhaps a vision, a dream, a particular word taken from a novel, or it could be anything. I once wrote of a soldier ant standing guard duty in the pouring rain. He wore a helmet and carried a miniature rifle but left his post without permission. He was A.W.O.L. and was heard to say, "to hell with this," when lightning struck nearby. After that, he was never seen again. Perhaps, he found a runaway W.A.C. from an ant platoon who together decided to elope on a log to honeymoon in the Caribbean. Ants love pineapples and sweet tropical fruits.
How long have I been writing? All of my adult life, but since retiring and building a new house, called Nevertheless Acres, (see the author's comments) in twenty-seventeen, I have scribed six volumes of writ. (sic II, perhaps) That equates to greater than (>) three-thousand pieces of one thing or another.
What will happen to these tomes? I'll leave them for my kids and a copy for the university where I set high water marks for rebounding a basketball for a year and career. Anyhow, the one year mark was crushed two years later. But, as Jim Nance has said, "It was one for the ages," while it lasted. Records are made to be broken. For instance, Rocky won the champeen and yelled when it was over to his gal, "I did it, Adrian."
Where was I? Oh yes. I hope the university will place them on display in the campus library. The idea is to encourage students to follow their dreams. Additionally, I was an editor for the campus newspaper and contributor to the Chiaroscuro, the college's annual magazine. I like talking about myself.
One thing I'm sure of is that I did not join a writing club to be published but to satisfy an ego that thought it kin to Lawrence Ferlinghetti's, but not Dylan Thomas's, who I wholeheartedly dislike despite sharing a name. I cannot understand a word he pens, and worse is, listening to a recording spoken in Welsh reading his poetry.
What I pen runs across the board, but most of it is poetry, though critics say poetry must rhyme. So, what I write is likely "free verse." It scratches my id when it goes to itching. That is why I subscribed to FanStory last January. It, my id, was itching a lot.
I find kind people on this site who read my entries posted to solicited contests. Afterward, they leave uplifting comments and/or suggestions for improvement to a higher level of understanding. Something no psychiatrist has done through seventy-five years of life.
Still, it surprises me sometimes to receive any comment when I leave the reservation (sorry, my native American friends) by inserting a foot in my mouth. It may not have tasted good after spouting whatever out, but it was undoubtedly appealing when the thought originated.
Do I ever think of apologizing, as I did four lines above? Rarely. For saying s-o-r-r-y, isn't the tea for me? Perhaps, I am a twenty-first-century Fonzie.
Whatever the case, I feel correct more times than not. Still, there was an occasion when I was alone with a sister-in-law as I spoke harshly of a brother-in-law at a Thanksgiving gathering. She quickly turned to me and said, "And what exactly do you say about me when I'm not here?" That put me in my place for a moment. It was quite revoltin'!
Still, everyone is entitled to an opinion. Like buttholes, everyone has one. Oops. There I go again, becoming Mr. McScrooge. No, not the blind cartoon character but the Scottish kin of the skinflint, Ebenezer Scrooge, who you might recall from "A Christmas Carol."
I don't know how many words I have written, but I am sure I haven't exceeded the thousand-word limit. Yet, if I'm close, I must bid you adieu, and then be off to the loo for some serious thought, pretending to be the subject of Auguste Rodin. It's the picture I led this entry with today.
This Is My Life! writing prompt entry
This quote, "... from New Year's Day to the last of December," comes from John Bunyan's, Pilgrim's Progress, which had me think of my life overall and what turns the dial of my internal clock. In short, what makes me tick?
Truth be told, I do not know, but what I do know is I can screw around with the best minds in the universe without a second thought. Intentionally unintentional, I think. Learned it from my dad. He was monikered [sic] to be the master of disaster. No, not Apollo Creed, but the king of kibitzers. He was taught by the best ballplayers of a Philadelphia Athletic farm club and companions on the Pennsylvania Railroad. The stories he told, though, were R-rated. Not mine. As a parochial graduate, I watch my p's and q's. Dad drank his. (P's and Q's, by the way, translate to Pints and Quarts.)
One source for my nonconforming nuances can be found on FanStory.com, where wannabe authors post various writings. They compose lunes, haikus, short stories, sonnets, plays, and chapters of novels that drone on endlessly, unlikely to be printed by a publishing house. A perfect place for my scribbling because I don't care if I am ever published. I write for myself first and then for whoever peruses me. I hope to bring them joy, not grief.
"What do I write," you ask? It might be any genre. I alternate through romance, comedy, faith-based testimonials, and fractured fairy tales previously written by well-known writers, yet sometimes I create my own.
My sources? Perhaps a vision, a dream, a particular word taken from a novel, or it could be anything. I once wrote of a soldier ant standing guard duty in the pouring rain. He wore a helmet and carried a miniature rifle but left his post without permission. He was A.W.O.L. and was heard to say, "to hell with this," when lightning struck nearby. After that, he was never seen again. Perhaps, he found a runaway W.A.C. from an ant platoon who together decided to elope on a log to honeymoon in the Caribbean. Ants love pineapples and sweet tropical fruits.
How long have I been writing? All of my adult life, but since retiring and building a new house, called Nevertheless Acres, (see the author's comments) in twenty-seventeen, I have scribed six volumes of writ. (sic II, perhaps) That equates to greater than (>) three-thousand pieces of one thing or another.
What will happen to these tomes? I'll leave them for my kids and a copy for the university where I set high water marks for rebounding a basketball for a year and career. Anyhow, the one year mark was crushed two years later. But, as Jim Nance has said, "It was one for the ages," while it lasted. Records are made to be broken. For instance, Rocky won the champeen and yelled when it was over to his gal, "I did it, Adrian."
Where was I? Oh yes. I hope the university will place them on display in the campus library. The idea is to encourage students to follow their dreams. Additionally, I was an editor for the campus newspaper and contributor to the Chiaroscuro, the college's annual magazine. I like talking about myself.
One thing I'm sure of is that I did not join a writing club to be published but to satisfy an ego that thought it kin to Lawrence Ferlinghetti's, but not Dylan Thomas's, who I wholeheartedly dislike despite sharing a name. I cannot understand a word he pens, and worse is, listening to a recording spoken in Welsh reading his poetry.
What I pen runs across the board, but most of it is poetry, though critics say poetry must rhyme. So, what I write is likely "free verse." It scratches my id when it goes to itching. That is why I subscribed to FanStory last January. It, my id, was itching a lot.
I find kind people on this site who read my entries posted to solicited contests. Afterward, they leave uplifting comments and/or suggestions for improvement to a higher level of understanding. Something no psychiatrist has done through seventy-five years of life.
Still, it surprises me sometimes to receive any comment when I leave the reservation (sorry, my native American friends) by inserting a foot in my mouth. It may not have tasted good after spouting whatever out, but it was undoubtedly appealing when the thought originated.
Do I ever think of apologizing, as I did four lines above? Rarely. For saying s-o-r-r-y, isn't the tea for me? Perhaps, I am a twenty-first-century Fonzie.
Whatever the case, I feel correct more times than not. Still, there was an occasion when I was alone with a sister-in-law as I spoke harshly of a brother-in-law at a Thanksgiving gathering. She quickly turned to me and said, "And what exactly do you say about me when I'm not here?" That put me in my place for a moment. It was quite revoltin'!
Still, everyone is entitled to an opinion. Like buttholes, everyone has one. Oops. There I go again, becoming Mr. McScrooge. No, not the blind cartoon character but the Scottish kin of the skinflint, Ebenezer Scrooge, who you might recall from "A Christmas Carol."
I don't know how many words I have written, but I am sure I haven't exceeded the thousand-word limit. Yet, if I'm close, I must bid you adieu, and then be off to the loo for some serious thought, pretending to be the subject of Auguste Rodin. It's the picture I led this entry with today.
Truth be told, I do not know, but what I do know is I can screw around with the best minds in the universe without a second thought. Intentionally unintentional, I think. Learned it from my dad. He was monikered [sic] to be the master of disaster. No, not Apollo Creed, but the king of kibitzers. He was taught by the best ballplayers of a Philadelphia Athletic farm club and companions on the Pennsylvania Railroad. The stories he told, though, were R-rated. Not mine. As a parochial graduate, I watch my p's and q's. Dad drank his. (P's and Q's, by the way, translate to Pints and Quarts.)
One source for my nonconforming nuances can be found on FanStory.com, where wannabe authors post various writings. They compose lunes, haikus, short stories, sonnets, plays, and chapters of novels that drone on endlessly, unlikely to be printed by a publishing house. A perfect place for my scribbling because I don't care if I am ever published. I write for myself first and then for whoever peruses me. I hope to bring them joy, not grief.
"What do I write," you ask? It might be any genre. I alternate through romance, comedy, faith-based testimonials, and fractured fairy tales previously written by well-known writers, yet sometimes I create my own.
My sources? Perhaps a vision, a dream, a particular word taken from a novel, or it could be anything. I once wrote of a soldier ant standing guard duty in the pouring rain. He wore a helmet and carried a miniature rifle but left his post without permission. He was A.W.O.L. and was heard to say, "to hell with this," when lightning struck nearby. After that, he was never seen again. Perhaps, he found a runaway W.A.C. from an ant platoon who together decided to elope on a log to honeymoon in the Caribbean. Ants love pineapples and sweet tropical fruits.
How long have I been writing? All of my adult life, but since retiring and building a new house, called Nevertheless Acres, (see the author's comments) in twenty-seventeen, I have scribed six volumes of writ. (sic II, perhaps) That equates to greater than (>) three-thousand pieces of one thing or another.
What will happen to these tomes? I'll leave them for my kids and a copy for the university where I set high water marks for rebounding a basketball for a year and career. Anyhow, the one year mark was crushed two years later. But, as Jim Nance has said, "It was one for the ages," while it lasted. Records are made to be broken. For instance, Rocky won the champeen and yelled when it was over to his gal, "I did it, Adrian."
Where was I? Oh yes. I hope the university will place them on display in the campus library. The idea is to encourage students to follow their dreams. Additionally, I was an editor for the campus newspaper and contributor to the Chiaroscuro, the college's annual magazine. I like talking about myself.
One thing I'm sure of is that I did not join a writing club to be published but to satisfy an ego that thought it kin to Lawrence Ferlinghetti's, but not Dylan Thomas's, who I wholeheartedly dislike despite sharing a name. I cannot understand a word he pens, and worse is, listening to a recording spoken in Welsh reading his poetry.
What I pen runs across the board, but most of it is poetry, though critics say poetry must rhyme. So, what I write is likely "free verse." It scratches my id when it goes to itching. That is why I subscribed to FanStory last January. It, my id, was itching a lot.
I find kind people on this site who read my entries posted to solicited contests. Afterward, they leave uplifting comments and/or suggestions for improvement to a higher level of understanding. Something no psychiatrist has done through seventy-five years of life.
Still, it surprises me sometimes to receive any comment when I leave the reservation (sorry, my native American friends) by inserting a foot in my mouth. It may not have tasted good after spouting whatever out, but it was undoubtedly appealing when the thought originated.
Do I ever think of apologizing, as I did four lines above? Rarely. For saying s-o-r-r-y, isn't the tea for me? Perhaps, I am a twenty-first-century Fonzie.
Whatever the case, I feel correct more times than not. Still, there was an occasion when I was alone with a sister-in-law as I spoke harshly of a brother-in-law at a Thanksgiving gathering. She quickly turned to me and said, "And what exactly do you say about me when I'm not here?" That put me in my place for a moment. It was quite revoltin'!
Still, everyone is entitled to an opinion. Like buttholes, everyone has one. Oops. There I go again, becoming Mr. McScrooge. No, not the blind cartoon character but the Scottish kin of the skinflint, Ebenezer Scrooge, who you might recall from "A Christmas Carol."
I don't know how many words I have written, but I am sure I haven't exceeded the thousand-word limit. Yet, if I'm close, I must bid you adieu, and then be off to the loo for some serious thought, pretending to be the subject of Auguste Rodin. It's the picture I led this entry with today.
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Writing Prompt Write a poem, short piece of fiction, or an essay about your philosophy of life. No more than 1000 words. |
Nevertheless Acres was named, as the wife and I promised to "Do Thy Will," as the Savior said to his Father, for all we have has been gifted by His hand.
Photo is one I snapped on a bus driving by the Thinker in Paris, 2014.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Photo is one I snapped on a bus driving by the Thinker in Paris, 2014.
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