The Story of Johnny Head-In-Air

As he trudg'd along to school,
It was always Johnny's rule
To be looking at the sky,
And the clouds that floated by;
But what just before him lay,
In his way,
Johnny never thought about;
So that every one cried out -
"Look at little Johnny there,
Little Johnny Head-In-Air!"

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My mornings are on the sacred side. I don’t actually leave for work until just after 8, yet I like to get up at 6am. Go through the morning rituals…and have time for a cup of coffee in front of the computer. Sometimes I write…and lately that’s been happening a lot since I’ve got a ghostwriting job which, though it pays quite well and is ongoing for a couple more months, is very time consuming.

But sometimes, like this morning, I browse through a few of the blogs I follow. While reading one today, I had that “aha” moment, that brought back good memories of blogging. In my WP days, about two years ago, I would compose posts in my head as I walked or drove. I was always looking for something to write about…something of interest. I have to admit that my postings were often about personal nonsense however, when I looked back over the entire blog before shutting it down, there were some good entries there.

Writing is either in your soul…or it isn’t. And blogging is just another way to let the muse out. Before blogs became all the rage, writers wrote on paper…in diaries, on scraps of paper, in notebooks. Unless you handed someone your notebook and said, “here, read please”, your writing remained extremely private. Then along comes this incredible application…the blog. And suddenly…you can write…and others can read…or not, and you never have to see their facial expressions if they don’t get it, or they get it and disagree.

And even more satisfying is that you can click on your own little space on the Internet…and see your words. Your very own words. Your corner of the world where your creativity exists. I believe that when it comes to many of things I write, I’m a narcissist. I like to see the shape of letters…forming my thoughts…trailing along the page…weaving a tapestry into which is woven pieces of me.

I’m already falling back into that pattern of composing words in my head. Like "Hans Guck-in-die-Luft" …a German folktale by Heinrich Hoffman, where Hans walks while day dreaming and looking into the clouds, falling off the end of the pier in to the water, where ravenous fish are waiting to devour him.

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Wenn der Hans zur Schule ging,
Stets sein Blick am Himmel hing.
Nach den Dächern, Wolken, Schwalben
Schaut er aufwärts allenthalben:
Vor die eignen Füße dicht,
Ja, da sah der Bursche nicht,
Also daß ein jeder ruft:
"Seht den Hans Guck-in-die-Luft !"