Most days, life is like listening to tennis balls in a dryer. My new normal. I doubt it's normal for someone who is Amish, or in a monastery, or packing supplies up to a high mountain fire tower. But out here in the trenches, too much information and sensory input banging away is a sign of the times. Tennis balls, in their garish yellow and weird fuzzy texture sort of way, pound around in a dryer but never have the decency to stick to a pattern. If they would thump and boom with regularity, one could rest for a microsecond in between the assaults of sound, like the way a mountain climber will rest by locking one leg with each grueling step, for an almost indiscernible moment to rest, preserving energy for the long haul.
You could simply not put your tennis balls in the dryer in the first place, but that would require forethought years in advance. Once they're tumbling, it's hard to turn off the dryer.
I was reading about poetry today. Poets don't get much credit for the intricacies involved in creating a fine poem. I know just barely enough to have great respect for the art of poetry. Now that I'm in that frame of mind, without the tools of the poet to assist me, all I can do is babble about tennis balls in a dryer.
Yikes!
You could simply not put your tennis balls in the dryer in the first place, but that would require forethought years in advance. Once they're tumbling, it's hard to turn off the dryer.
I was reading about poetry today. Poets don't get much credit for the intricacies involved in creating a fine poem. I know just barely enough to have great respect for the art of poetry. Now that I'm in that frame of mind, without the tools of the poet to assist me, all I can do is babble about tennis balls in a dryer.
Yikes!
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