Superfluous in Words

Only today did I read the comment on my October 29th post, and I wonder, is it that what is said about me is dull, or is it that I am just superfluous. It could be that I just don't fit. Odd, though, is the feeling, lately gaining momentum, that I don't have much of a place nor much of a focus as to where in the world I should go. Now, I am being edited out of places in other's writings. Hardly do I take offense, though I find it funny that several people found me to be the extraneous element in places the author identifies with me. On the other hand, if I find out that I am edited out of Sovata or the All-Saints' Day Bus ride to Targu Mures, then I will know the Purdue English Graduate Program Staff has it out for me, and intends to excise me from all my best friend's writing efforts.

(I can't say that Ozzy Osbourne did justice to the Beatles' "In My Life.")

Now that those things I hadn't intended to write about have been written about, I guess it is time to figure out what I planned to write about today, but it is too late. Thoughts have vanished, and I should take Twain's proposed advice to Fennimore Cooper, but I haven't always been known to take good advice. Actually, I managed to spit out a journal entry today, and I don't transcribe them, for some reason, the electronic and the written tend to stay in their separate stacks. If I can merge the electrons and the ink molecules, perhaps I can create something, and if I toss on a bit of paint, perhaps I will dub it Cubism for the 21st century.

What I really need to merge is my attention and focus, as they wander where they will generally taking my time with them, all over the place, but one thing they don't take is production or creation, and that is what is bothering me, but paint, write, or some other of the muses' blessings, it doesn't really matter, just do something.