A Return To The Spaghetti Story

Having successfully negotiated the day without making a mess, coughing my lungs out, or expiring from lack of sleep, am now ensconced on sofa in living room, facing flat-screen HDTV, watching closing credits of Owen Wilson pic, one I’ve never heard of before: “The Big Bounce.” This one has quite a number of “name” actors (like Morgan Freeman and Bebe Neuwirth) mixed in with Butterscotch Stallion and various bimbettes.

Have decided I must now try to write (If can manage same without getting up from sofa). Naturally, have chosen Haruki Murakami‘s spaghetti story (only two pages long, but it’s taken me almost a year to get through, because I keep getting dis – trac – ted) to try and get creative juices flowing.

Here is a further interesting passage from said story (which I have now encased in plastic — no, actually laminated — since The New Yorker issue I lifted it from, the issue of Nov. 21, 2005, has long disappeared into recycling pur – ga – to – ree – o):

I always drank tea with my spaghetti and ate a simple lettuce-and-cucumber salad. I’d make sure I had plenty of both. I laid everything out neatly on the table and enjoyed a leisurely meal, glancing at the paper as I ate. From Sunday to Saturday, one Spaghetti Day followed another. And each new Sunday started a brand-new Spaghetti Week.

Every time I sat down to a plate of spaghetti — especially on a rainy afternoon — I had the distinct feeling that somebody was about to knock on my door. The person who I imagined was about to visit me was different each time. Sometimes it was a stranger, sometimes someone I knew. Once, it was a girl with slim legs whom I’d dated in high school, and once it was myself, from a few years back, come to pay a visit. Another time, it was William Holden, with Jennifer Jones on his arm.

I know you are just dying to find out how the story ends, dear blog reader. But if I could spend a year and a half hanging on to the darn thing without giving up hope that it would inspire me to write the truly great short story that I know I am fully capable of writing, then you can just hold your horses because first I have to figure out how a man writes a short story about sitting down to a spaghetti dinner week after week, how a man can write that, and make it interesting. If I figure that out, then I will be well on my way, and we can get to the end of the story.

Staring straight ahead now, with utmost concentration. (Really trying hard not to wrinkle my forehead, as self does not want to go the Botox route — not, at least, until I’m 70) Are thoughts coming to me yet? Spaghetti thoughts? Or any thoughts — any thoughts at all?

Stay tuned, dear blog reader, stay tuned.

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