excerpt from my journal…

9 June, 2017

Twenty minutes. I have twenty minutes to make an impression and I’m wasting it with this drivel. I’ll apologize now and get it over with, but I won’t promise that there won’t be more apologies as the text continues to unfold. And, to say the text will “unfold” is just convenient flowery talk for the idea that I am currently writing with no real goal in mind other than to fill up a page and kill the twenty minutes I originally mentioned.

WC12-001 27-1I am succeeding at both. I’ve got a paragraph written and I now only have 19 minutes to murder.

You may have noticed if you look at the divisions, the chapter headings, the markers in this document, that there are days missing. A good journalist, not necessarily a news writer, but merely one who at least claims to verb it along, as in one who journals, I would think would create an entry every day. Within every 24 hour period there would be written documentation, a document, some text, that would be associated with that calendared span of time.

(stop the clock – I want to go get a warmer on my coffee and taste the biscuits I pulled out of the oven about 30 minutes ago. Yes, they will be cold by now, or maybe tepid, the butter won’t melt through them, but they also won’t burn my sensitive mouth. And my mouth is sensitive. brb.)

Okay. I’m back. Sorry about that. Yes, the biscuit was tepid, but still tasty with a slathering of butter and some peanut butter that I made the other day.

What? You don’t make your own peanut butter? It’s really quite easy. I have one of those Ninja food processors. I buy jars of peanuts at the market when they’re on sale, usually one unsalted and the other dry roasted or lightly salted. I’ve used the “honey roasted” peanuts before and it’s a little too sweet for me, but still, it tastes mighty good. I’ll do it specifically if I am making some peanut butter for, say, my little sister, who likes such things. Anyway, regarding the making of peanut butter, I just dump two jars of on-sale peanuts from the market, usually 2 for $5, into the Ninja food processor, secure the lid, and turn it on crush. It takes, oh, about seven or eight minutes for it to get good and smooth. Then all I have to do is use a spatula, and sometimes my fingers, to transfer the peanut butter into a plastic container. Yeah, I should use glass. Maybe when I get to California I’ll get some glass containers. As for using my fingers to assist in the decanting of peanut butter from the Ninja to the storage unit, the blade gets kind of gunked up and it’s hard to scrape it clean without really getting in there with my fingers to get to every nook and cranny. The peanut butter is valuable and should not be wasted.

With that, I have achieved my goal. It is now 9 a.m. and twenty minutes past my start time. I’ve written a short piece which I will analyze before moving on to my next chore. Thank you for the privilege of your time and attention, and if you feel as though you’ve been cheated, well, I apologize.

Pitney Purfoy’s Problem

Without too much effort the ludicrous lackey lined the tub with wax and honey, thinking all the while that what he was doing wasn’t wasteful but wished-for. Ah, the musings of a marshmallowed minion without mind or manner attuned to his business!

longing, lonNeocubist Portrait Reconfiguredging for a purpose beside the one his mother taught him

longing, longing for a purpose other than the one his father aspired to

Pitney Purfoy waddled away from the tub and picked his nose in the process. He had picked it from a chart on the wall in his hall that very same day, but had decided it did not suit him, so he picked another then another then another, only to find each one was clogged and second rate, despite the aquiline lines and sharp and noble profile. Purfoy didn’t want to hear anything about it from his mates, so he turned his head when he picked and flicked the clog into the air from behind his back. No one will see, no one will know.

I tell you what, he said, laughing at his own untold joke, next time I’ll pick one that requires less picking! Too much work, I say!

Purfoy you old such and such! Did you get that there tub lined with the tacks and money?

Tax and money? Thought you said wax and honey! Those two go together just as well if not better, Boss. And where am I supposed to get the tax and money anyways? Ain’t it something I don’t got? Like couth and grammar?


The Boss man, who was called Bob or Bellicose Bob by those who didn’t know him scratched the top of his hairless head and shook the waddle of his neck.

By gum you’re right there Purfoy! You’re right and I’m left here wondering what I was thinking. Apparently I wasn’t and that ain’t never a good thing. Never a good thing!

Poor Purfoy stood there, wanting to pick his nose again, clogged as it was, but with Bellicose Bob standing right there, scratching his own pate, confused by the pointlessness of the process, he was too self conscious. Instead he pondered his longings and those of his parents. Had he exchanged his for theirs? Mayhaps, he thought, mayhaps. Then he envisioned flicking the clog if he allowed himself to pick it, and it landing in BB’s pocket or even in his eye. He laughed and sniffed, but not well because of the clog, then lowered his head and drew a booger shaped squiggle in the dirt with the toe of his boot.

Bob was still wondering where his mind had gone wrong when Pitney Purfoy’s pantomime popped and he rolled on his side to see the clock face, with no nose to speak of, alarming him as to the hour and minute of the half day of morning.

I had better cook the coffee and pour it down fast without scorching my tongue and searing my throat and get me to my job lest my dream become meme and I lose my mindless mind.


His toes reached for the floor and found the rug and its dust and particles of decay and eased his weight onto his left foot and then his right. Padding padding padding he went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. He popped a stale gum drop from the counter into his mouth and rolled it from side to side, dissolving the minicubes of sugar that protected the flavored gelatin beneath. Lime. Limey. Ought to have tea instead. But that would require lemon. Faster though but not as good. Coffee it is.

While the water in the kettle made psychic contact with the flames on the other side of the aluminum and copper wall, Purfoy padded into the hallway and considered the chart there.

Which one today? Long and straight? Short and broad, sharp and pointed, dull and cavernous? Who knows what criterion to use in such an important business.

Close your eyes and grab one, affix it with care and, sniff sniff sniff! Just the smell of the cooking coffee is enough to wake a boy up. Hurrah!

©2016 Stuart Dummit

Just a thought…

So, I’m reading Homer’s Iliad and the TV is on in the background, sound turned down – I do this when waiting for one of my news shows to come on, or if Chris Matthews is constantly interrupting the person he’s “interviewing,” that always pisses me off, but I digress – so, I’m re-reading the last paragraph about the mighty Greeks storming the walled city of Troy when I notice a flicker on the TV screen. I look up and see some guy dancing around in a drug store. Curious, I un-mute the set to hear what is going on. It’s an ad for Trojan condoms. I look down at my book, then look up at the screen, then down at the book again. I scratch that itch on the side of my nose and look up again and say aloud to the TV screen, “You guys know that the Trojans lost, right?”