Books in Progress, flash fiction, Mindset, stream of consciousness, Uncategorized, Writing

Jots – flying thoughts

Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love posits that idea snippets are whizzing through the air for anyone to catch. Someone is bound to write it down! Some examples follow of phrases I collect in my phone notes or in my journal. In case you were wondering what one writer finds interesting about the thoughts that flow day to day. Some of these phrases are similar to ones that made it in to my writing, because they taste so good in the mouth. Enjoy!

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The word contumacious! – “stuffed the hat onto his head and he contumaciously stalked out of the room.” from Anthony Trollope’s “Ayala’s Angel”. [rebellious, esp against authority, judicial court] I wonder if one stem of this is the same as “tumescent” meaning ‘full of.’

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Nutmeg and camphor – the smell of Great Grandparents Johnson’s house.

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‘My heart slung back like a rigid crease in folded metal. I could not extract a word or smooth it out again. I had been struck irreversibly. Others have said such things, such words to me. But none were shot as hard from him, only a one whose  lips could puncture’

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They paraded across my mind’s eye like an identifying lineup–each one of them a schlub in sheep’s clothing, only with slightly different hairlines.

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The importance of hanging out with people who are less stressed than yourself. And then opening up the sense/ accepting in the non-judgmental space/ the vibration of each other…

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Idea- voice recognition glitches as felt by a “youngest child type” who doesn’t get acknowledgment anyway. They lose it entirely over it misspelling their name or something.

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Then, in my left shin, fibula, foot and knee, …as if I were a magician’s assistant and he removed one of those metal plates from the box through my tibia. (Rolfing)

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The old men love me. Not the distinguished salt-and-pepper Rolex kind. I’m talking about the arrogant blowhard, white hair with comb marks, tipping-on-his-hind-legs kind of old man. The one who might kiss you with no actual muscle in his lip, but who halds you firmly by the upper arms as he does it, as if to prove a point. “I used to kiss young women and make them tremble and so I shall again. There. See?”

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Under the tree, tell me, is there anything missing? – flash poem

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 paper not exactly catching fire, is how the fear tried to be burnt off me in LA. Slow, not all of a sudden. Yes, I cared–but the burning not-care won out in some way. Other ways fear dissipated were not yet to appear. I wished to either burn entirely, or be drowned. But I knew drowning was not availabe, as it hadn’t rained in 8 years and to get to the ocean would take 3 hours by bus–by that time, the Will to drown would evaporate away in the heat.

Thanks for visiting my head! See more of my writing on my patreon page, and consider becoming a patron of the arts! Thank you.

https://www.patreon.com/KerryEMcKennaAuthor

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