Genetic Transduction

Careful Kyle and I went out for Sunday drinks. There’s a little bar that has a free pool table and two-dollar Pabst Blue Ribbon that we go to. We were having a good time when a guy named Lorcan started to mouth off to careful Kyle. It was unprovoked. Lorcan just didn’t like him for some reason. Maybe it had something to do with the turquoise sweat shirt Kyle was wearing. It made him out to be a dork. Lorcan wouldn’t shut up and he looked much like a dork himself.

I vouch for Kyle I told Lorcan. He’s a good guy. A crowd gathered around. There were four men now trying to defuse the situation. Lorcan keep at it. He was a new arrival from Ireland. I guess they have a different way of doing things in Ireland, more direct. Kyle wanted to leave, but I persuaded him to stay. This Lorcan guy was nuts. He wasn’t making any sense. He didn’t like Kyle and he didn’t even know him. He didn’t know that Kyle had hidden talents for making beer and that he was a good guy who was lost like the rest of us. I finally convinced Lorcan that Kyle was worthy of his respect and everything calmed down.

Come to find out that Lorcan means troublemaker in Irish. And Lorcan was Lorcan the sixth. He came from a proud family of Lorcan’s. It all made sense then. He was the joker from a long line of troublemakers.

We have royalty here! I said. We got back to drinking.

Press On

I’m woefully inconsistent for this blog thing. There are events happening in my life but I don’t feel like writing about them.

I woke up in the middle of the night and heard an owl hooting. I liked it. I thought of him sitting there patrolling for rats and mice. It was comforting to hear.

I’m reading O Pioneers, by Willa Cather, finally a book written by a woman I can appreciate. There was that other book about bee’s written by Kid something. She’s a good writer. I didn’t finish the book. I’ve been meaning to get back to it.

I’ve been working on the short story, re-working some stuff. That’s the process re-work until it feels right. They almost never feel right. I could spend my whole life re-working my stuff. Good ideas turn sour the longer you let them sit. But it’s the process. It’s almost as if you get more intelligent by letting it sit for a while. It’s interesting how one day you think your writing is good and the next you see it’s limitations. Time brings insight. I wonder why that happens, or how it happens. One day you’re smart, the next you’re a dull average being. I’m glad I can see the difference, sometimes intelligence is no-more then knowing your limitations, but even then you have to press on.