Dilemma and Solution

I'm ankle deep in the surf. The water is cool and softly tickling as it rushes over and back across my feet. I'm enjoying the sensation. Muttly is at the end of his leash about 15 feet onto the beach.  His head is down nosing about what looks to me like a clump of seaweed washed ashore.  I begin to splash further along but Muttly doesn't want to come.  He's straining against the leash.  I walk toward him to see what he finds so interesting.  It's a dead helmet crab, upside down on the sand. Muttly is eating its entrails. 

Dogs.

We only stayed about an hour or so. Just long enough for the mutt to get a good hike and Woowoo Charly and I to stare at the vastness of the sea, meditate and contemplate all those big things inspired by the ocean's horizon meeting the sky.  For me it was game one of the World Series beginning that night and for Woowoo it was the Taco Bell run we were going to make as soon as this beaching part was over.   It was midday and although the temp was pleasant at seventy something and I was fully greased with 50 SPF (Specially Pickled Formaldehyde) we weren't really there for the beach experience.  Those we reserve for early evening when I am in less danger of my epidermis spontaneously combusting; a thing that happens because the mere sight of my exposed skin seems to piss off the sun.

It's the next day now and I'm trying to tug on the loose thread unraveling from my mind's sweater in hopes of putting it back in place.  I'm tugging and tugging and the thread is getting longer and longer and the sweater is disappearing...or is it the whole mind?  

Nope, there's still one small part intact.  Let's see what it has to say. 

Not much, apparently.  Woowoo Chuck and I are living small lives without much external stimulation.  This is not a bad thing, There is a degree of peace that comes with the knowledge that one day is going to be much like the next and that one too will be gentle and stress-less. It leaves little, though, to write about. After 700 blogs I've pretty much sucked the humor potential out of trips to the supermarket and such and I'm running out of words that are fun to say...like blasphemy.  Blasphemy is fun to say and if you didn't know what it meant, what would you think it meant? To me it sounds like a mental disorder.  John's blasphemy was at its worst when he drank, hence his record number of bar fights. 

I came back to blogging regularly, okay semi regularly, as a means of whiling away a pleasant hour or two, but in truth it has been more of a struggle than I had imagined.  So...... long pause after so,  I'm going back to just making shit up and trying to twist it into a story. I will still blog when something of note occurs that lends itself to my version of what a blog is and I will, of course, post any of my fictions that are remotely decent. 

That said.

Through my window I can see a small, glass smiling Buddha leaning against a tree.  I wonder what he's thinking?