My New Title
There was a clattering of pots and pans from the kitchen that vaguely resembled what gunfire on the television sounded like.
The price of tea in China rose, by the smallest fraction of a fraction.
Jimmy was following this along on a website. This is how he knew. PriceOfTeaInChina.com.
He was just about ready to head out into the kitchen, probably to face the wrath of the pot and pan thrower, if that was, indeed, what she was doing out there.
In fact, what she was doing was basically throwing the pots and pans, in that the pots and pans had been quite artfully slung around the kitchen with a minimum of noise but, as time went on and the person slinging the pots and pans grew more frustrated with the lack of Jimmy in the kitchen helping with the pots and pans in the kitchen the general welfare of the pots and pans became less and less important and the noise level grew. All of this culminated in one of the pots, one of the louder ones, when flung against, say, the oven door, clanging off the oven door from the cozy distance of the counter opposite it, four and a half feet away.
While it was a believable distance for a pot to slip, from the counter to the oven, Jimmy figured now would be a good time to close down the Powerbook and get his butt out to the kitchen to see what all the hubbub was about.
He entered with a little wave and opened a drawer, for lack of anything better to do. It was the scissor and utility drawer, which he would have occasion to open, so it wasn't a completely awkward task to put his body to.
"What were you doing in there?"
"I was listening to the game."
"I didn't hear it."
"I had headphones on."
"Ehm, and I thought you were writing.
"I was. And listening to the game."
"At the same time?"
"Well, yeah." He quickly ran it through past his internal processes... was he able to listen to the game and write at the same time? Sure he was, just not as effectively. And he usually had to rewrite most of that stuff. But he considered it almost a form of automatic writing, or laying the foundations, or buttering the bread. He was just getting the words to the paper, even if he wouldn't use those exact words, the thoughts they represented, or the metaphor he was attempting to assign them for his writing process. It usually meant the article or whatever it was he was working on took twice as long, but he once heard a lecture where the distinguished speaker stressed the important of the physical act of writing, even if the content wasn't quite there. His editor usually heard that one every few weeks.
To be continued...
disclaimer:
So we're back, and we're very very tired.
So we bid you adieu until next week.
Oh, and we brought you some sand from the beach in Lahinch, only it was confiscated at customs, so we've got nothing. Nothing but our simple words. Or something to that effect.
It's a good thing we've got these forums sitting there, then, huh?
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