It seems only like yesterday, I was pontificating, ruminating, cogitating, deliberating and prevaricating about wanting to write my book–complete with the breathless declaration that I had completed the first chapter.
Then, I went to McCloud on a church.family camp thingamabob. I managed to get derailed again, when the ambient temapterature reached about 225 degrees.
Okay, maybe that’s a bit high, but needless to say, the temps put the trout into some other Narnian state of existence, because they were virtually nowhere to be found.
So instead, I started loitering around the town of McCloud, talking to people and asking “which way to the mountain?” even though it’s visible from nearly every porch.
Then, I decided to video blog a bunch of nonsense. It was fun.
Then, a bunch of other odd, Providential stuff happened, and I’ve been off on a cloud about that.
At the end of the trip we went to the Sisson museum, and looked around. This is where I saw a bunch of pictures of people standing on top of Mount Shasta. It was right then and there I decided. I can’t stand the fact that I live RIGHT NEAR a 14,000 foot-elevation mountaintop, and I haven’t been up there.
Yeah yeah. people die. I get it. Meh. Only 60 deaths are recorded there. Yosemite has well over a thousand. So apples and oranges.
And besides. I’ll be with a friend in case the dark specter of cannibalism raises its ugly head.
What does this have to do with my book? Nothing. I was nearly ready to find some ridiculous rationale for delay when my August, 2015 edition of Acoustic Guitar magazine came in.
Call it an omen. A sign. A harbinger. Whatever. I’m supposed to be circumventing–and then ultimately recusing this man’s legacy through the bald assault of my fictional molotov cocktails.
So back to it I go.