Monday, March 31, 2008

Just What Signal

Events conspire against me, at least in terms of scheduling. I had planned to be up and out of the house early, to work all morning at the office, to have "a regular day at the office," but Alix called last night as we were all in the middle of going to bed and asked to reschedule Sophia's horse lesson from Wednesday afternoon (bad for her, good for me) to this morning (good for her, bad for me). So I'm working at home this morning, sending emails, trying to write, et cetera. Everyone's still asleep, so the quiet is helpful. But it's not what I wanted.

As is always the case, after a brief burst of creative and inspiring energy comes another burst, a sodden and lower burst, that says to me: You're doing the wrong thing, you should be doing this other thing, any other thing, and what's more, this thing that you are doing, you're doing terribly, it's embarrassingly bad. So you have to save what shreds of dignity remain and quit right now. Take a week off and I'll get back to you on what the next project, the real project is.

Meaning, of course, that I'm sick of this blog now. It's not very funny and I prefer funny blogs to unfunny blogs. It's not teaching anybody anything, or summarizing the news, or anything like that. It's just glorified electronic navel-gazing. Who cares that it's only twenty or twenty-one lines, or modeled on Harry Mathews, or that its only purpose is to get me writing, using words, and then on to other writing.

Other things I could/should be doing right now include but are not limited to: practicing the flute (low D), playing guitar, walking the dogs, writing fiction, writing a journalistic query, finding opportunities to network with people who can help me sell longer nonfiction, reading for Goddard, making work calls, baking muffins, baking bread . . .

Well it's a brown day. More of the yard visible than not through crusty snow. Logging trucks visible half a mile away beside piles of brown logs. The sky gray , no leaves yet on trees (though the red fuzz of buds visible, at least yesterday out in the woods). Reilly the dog (more blonde than brown) sniffing the wet earth, and car exhaust hanging in the air even though no traffic to be seen on Route 112.

You grow tired of life being a certain way, and realize that to change it requires some effort (but what effort exactly) and a sense of some other way for life to be that isn't just a dream but more tangible, and then what? Then you wake up in the same bed, same skin, same house, and you can't figure out for the life of you just what signal the universe is trying to send.

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