priming

A long, long time ago, when my pimple-marred face was a smooth gradeschooler's, my grandmother showed me how to prime a water pump. As she cranked the squeaking handle up and down she would pour several dipper-fuls of "priming" water into the hole on top of the contraption. Soon enough, after a round of grunting and heaving, the water would bubble up from the unimposing fountain, ready to relieve our parched throats and wash the dirt off from the week's laundry.

Where am I getting at?

Right now, my mind is just like that water pump -- creaky, run-down and rusted all over from disuse. And thinking of what I could possibly share to the world is just as onerous and back-breaking (well, metaphorically speaking) as priming. I am at a loss for words, as always. I could only wish my heart out that they would come back to me in a sparkling blue rush. I'll be waiting.