As I’m sitting in my courtyard with long yellow legal and  pencil- as my friend and editor Kimo Rosen suggested – conjuring up ideas for a column, as all columnist must do, I am suddenly distracted by the thought of money. A dreadful distraction on such a drippy wet interesting morning.

My mind, and the zillion words there in, are supposed to  swing towards a total involvement in the trilling, tweeting, twittering song of the birds that flock and flourish in my jungle, sending delightful word-spinning, pencil scratching, lead ditters on the page.

The sweet scent of  fragrant frangipani  is supposed to scroll me a Pulitzer at the very least. Then lure me into a loquacious twittle, babble, gabble word crevice while chilly mini raindrops falling on my head swell up to  fill my quota.

The taste of tinned Christmas cookies will fill my head, as well as my belly, with big fat nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs Kimo, and others, will be able to read on the screen.

Oh joy. Kalloo kallay…

But what pops up? Don’t look up. I better find some money to pay some guy to come and cut those branches down before a wicked witch wind womps  them on my woof…er, drops them on my roof

“Stop it,” my creative mind screams and covers her ears. Unfortunately covering my ears when the words are coming from the inside out doesn’t cut the mustard  Don’t think about white elephants…

“…white elephants my foot. Where’s this money supposed to come from?”

“Shuddup.” The wind lifts a page of long yellow legal and its long flat tongue flutters back.

“The last guy you talked to wanted twelve hundred dollars  a day.”

“That’s more than I pay my dentist.”

“Teeth. How awful it must be to have a body.”

“You got one, too. You’re attached.”  I think about attachment. I’m attached to money.

Bird squawks, nose sniffles, cookie crumples and page flaps take a rumble seat as a walloping wind sends empty pages flying. Clutching pen and pad I scramble to my feet and head for a drier spot. I find one on a comfy wrought iron chair, plunk down, and giggle as dead branches gilded gold and dripping glittering dime store ornaments-my original contribution to an outdoor Yule- dance and  bob and bumble in the thrashing elemental wind and rain.

A war-whoop crash of thunder rapidly following a display of jagged blue brings my meandering mind to a jarring halt. No thoughts. No words. I am deafened. I am dizzy. I’m distraught. My head’s a blank.My teeth itch.

When my vision clears, what to my wandering eyes does appear? Not a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer but a  rampant raft of rubble large enough to build an ark that floats dinosaurs and unicorns, too, to safe anchor.

My mind whimpers…

…and that nasty noisy little voice that lives there sings, sweetly, “Think money, honey.”


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