Sticks.
Oh, it is wonderful to have this machine to type on and go back and delete or rearrange — unlike the mess of paper with scratch-outs and arrows and white paint and sometimes illegible handwriting.
It seems to be a thinking machine.
Some machines think too much. Sometimes we don’t use the k’noggins or k’noodles we are blessed with.
Isn’t it a pity. Isn’t it a shame, that we so seldom play with sticks anymore, along the way? It was so fun in those days we did.
Come to think of it, I do still play with sticks. I sometime hold them in my hands and break them up into little bits when putting them into compost heaps or hugelkultur beds. I like the texture that they are and their colors and all the animals living upon and in them. Those are usually the ones that have fallen from trees. Little limbs too old to hold their own weight anymore, dried beyond repair — a little too much like me. It’s nice that they can crackle.
It’s a joy to play with sticks.
Sticks and stones. Sticks don’t last as long as stones. Stones can wait for another day. Play with sticks today.
~ George Harrison
header image credit: Patrick Dougherty; stickwork.net
Writing Spool 