I awakened in the morning, from an amorphous dream and a deep sleep. It was as if some extra terrestrial force was controlling my brain, as I was ordered to procure a pen and a piece of paper and to write down the following words, without even beginning my usual bathroom routines.

The words were very clear in my head, and I proceeded as ordered:

“A SENTENCE, SLUGGISH FROM STANDING TOO LONG, WANTS TO BREAK OUT AND DANCE ON THE STREET.”

Okay. I did it. Now what?

I looked again at my clipboard, and studied the words. Hmmm. Kinda poetic – but hanging on a limb …. sort of like the gift someone gives you because the occasion calls for a gift – and the giver had no real clue why she sent it, but was relieved to have done the deed.

“A SENTENCE, SLUGGISH FROM STANDING TOO LONG, WANTS TO BREAK OUT AND DANCE ON THE STREET.”

The words, (“They”,) – are not a thing I can wrap around my body and clutch in the cold—I cannot place (them) on the kitchen counter and cut them up for salad, I’m not likely to hang them on my front door as a greeting for potential guests, and where in my lexicon of various writings can I place them, or, or, or, or — do they need to be gently plopped into an existing paragraph and carried away with the flow? And what is their importance, anyway? How about a simple ”delete?”

In deep musing modality, I proceeded to execute my plan for the day.

And the next day, and the next.

But every once in a while, the “sluggish sentence” beckoned me, winked at me, cajoled me into its lair, urged me to pull up a stool and contemplate with it, as if “it” were holding a kind of séance session.

Am I supposed to be dancing in the streets at the behest of a couple of pro-active brains cells that seemed to have forced their way into the limelight of my prefrontal lobes???

And just this morning – actually, this very minute — I read an essay entitled “Not Everything We Start is Worth Finishing.” Was the writer looking over my shoulder?

Maybe it’s enough. Over a thousand pieces of paper with my own jottings of the past 85 — yes eighty-five ! – years –(I never disposed of a word I put to paper) many frayed and indistinct, others merely yellowed — are sitting in boxes on my living room floor, awaiting – awaiting – some form of disposition. About ten pounds of them are sitting in a huge plastic bag, awaiting their actual demise — Perhaps they have “broken out and (will be) dancing in the streets?” The rest are awaiting sentencing.

So it seems that this is a test. A “sluggish sentence” need not necessarily be “watered.” Though I like to think of it as a flower – it ain‘t no flower. It is merely a freakin’ sentence. There are more where that came from, should I need them. Meanwhile, — on with the job of disposing of its kin. Keep some, ditch some, share some – make it neat, don’t leave a mess o’ stuff.

I will dig up some funny dreams to leave my heirs. They will have enough trouble fighting climate change, covid, rabid hatred, rampant lies and destructive mind-control. They will need a laugh.