About one block away, at the intersection of 2nd and Broadway, a cop redirects traffic because the city is doing some sort of construction. As that's not quite close enough to distract me, they're also doing construction on the walking bridge directly below my window. I already possess sufficient distractions to hinder my concentration, but the flourescent vests, bucket-trucks, and power tools make it next to impossible to write. So I'm here, instead of finishing an overdue old idea that I desperately want to complete before a new venture.
Seeking some analogy here, I'll say the construction they're doing is completing old, unfinished work so they can dig up and blow up other areas in Nashville. Except the ratio between started projects and finished projects is somewhere in the neighborhood of 4:1. Hardly inspiring. Perhaps I should join a union.
Add to my fragile mind the annoyance of a tender pimple on my left shoulder. It's deep enough under the skin that I can't pop it and relieve the agony without jabbing my arm with a letter opener. Which probably is a pound of cure for an ounce of problem. Which some kind of forethought could've prevented. Which I didn't have. Dammit.
So I can continue this blog entry to satisfy my requisite writing for the day, except this is pseudo-writing and I don't count it toward anything. It won't be of any value until after I'm famous and/or dead, and someone digs through my old computer files and realizes I was a genius even at the enviable age of 38. Except entries like this one hardly promote my genius. So I should either create something brilliant or quit now. I bet you can guess whi
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