I’m thinking I should take this story somewhere, but I have very little time to develop any of my original writing. Let me know if you think it’s worth continuing.
I donâ€™t like reading.
I donâ€™t read.
This isnâ€™t odd for a writer, especially a journalist.
Iâ€™m busy. I read my Blackberry and my bank statement and my travel itinerary.
I donâ€™t read.
Of course, the version of the truth Iâ€™m telling here – the version of myself Iâ€™m showing you – is an edited document, not the raw logs. If this were all there was of me, itâ€™d be fraught with chicken scratches and coffee stains and the faint taint of nicotine and sweat.
Oh, and the regular smudge of newsprint.
See, I lied. I still read the paper. Every morning. Front page to Obits and even the lingering glances at the Personals.
Habit is a powerful magnet. That and I love the smell of paper like other people enjoy Scotch or Cigar Smoke of New Car (or New Baby).
Scent being the sense with the strongest linkage to our memory, maybe Iâ€™m just trying to remember what itâ€™s like to be home. Have a real life and a real job.
Itâ€™s my Grandfatherâ€™s study and all those aromas are there. The scotch and smoke and new car scent (even my baby brotherâ€™s dirty diaper – not so fresh or new baby) all coalesce into that newsprint. Those pages. That heap of captured words and captioned pictures and comics and coupons.
Thatâ€™s me now.
Handing a drink coupon to a stewardess on a flight to nowhere.
I havenâ€™t read the ticket. Donâ€™t know my itinerary. Donâ€™t know my assignment or the assignment editor.
Shut off the berry. Shut down. See you on the ground.