While I usually avoid talking or even thinking entirely consciously about this, it often strikes me (usually when I don't find anything to blog about) how strange it is that for five-plus years I've managed, FWIW, to come up with a post idea about six days out of seven. More often than not, this just happens while I'm reading something (something doesn't add up, or reminds me of something else that doesn't seem entirely arbitrary), but sometimes it's a matter of mood, or caffeine: it feels like something is about to catch.
When it's the latter, my repetitive mind -- not so much a lizard brain as a perpetual child brain -- usually throws up a line from Winnie-the-Pooh
"he felt singy." Here is that jewel in its setting (
House at Pooh Corner, Ch. 6):
One day, when Pooh was walking towards this bridge, he was trying to make up a piece of poetry about fir-cones, because there they were, lying about on each side of him, and he felt singy.
