A Rainy Thursday
Windy, rainy, dark. It's fall and it's Thursday and I'm almost 66 years old. The weather captures my mood perfectly. I am unmotivated and as a matter of fact, I don't feel like fighting the doldrums right now. I feel more like putting on some old, dark jazz and settling into my chair with the lights out and searching my mind for anything of worth that I've collected over a lifetime. When I tire of rowing, I must drift.
Just went out on the deck with Smudge while my office was cleaned and while we waited, Smudge and I went over to the shop and I walked on the treadmill and listened to more of the Stephen King book on Audible. I'm really enjoying the Audible books so far. It's part of my Birthday present.
I've got to shift the towels and fold the ones in the dryer. Back in a "mo."
OK, that's done and I'm back. It's 1328h and I'm getting a little tired of opening and closing doors to let the cat and dog in and out of the house. I'm convinced that neither really knows what he wants. Actually, Smudge is OK just hanging and Rico just wants to mess with me.
I was planning on painting today but now it doesn't seem like a good idea. As I lay in bed this morning fighting to get back to some form of sleep, I had several ideas about painting that seemed like a good jumping off point. After getting up and moving around, the luster of the thought dulled into a mousey dun and I was once again, rudderless.
I have to get used to that feeling. There is only one thing that will drive me to painting and it is a routine. I can expect a regular supply of inspirational thoughts to make me want to write something, but the impetus to paint, for me, is rare. Once I begin, I can eventually reach the point where flow takes over, but the pump, she must be primed.
OK, this horse's corpus has been battered enough. I grow weary of the whining and would like to move farther from myself to get a break.
More later,
I've got to shift the towels and fold the ones in the dryer. Back in a "mo."
OK, that's done and I'm back. It's 1328h and I'm getting a little tired of opening and closing doors to let the cat and dog in and out of the house. I'm convinced that neither really knows what he wants. Actually, Smudge is OK just hanging and Rico just wants to mess with me.
I was planning on painting today but now it doesn't seem like a good idea. As I lay in bed this morning fighting to get back to some form of sleep, I had several ideas about painting that seemed like a good jumping off point. After getting up and moving around, the luster of the thought dulled into a mousey dun and I was once again, rudderless.
I have to get used to that feeling. There is only one thing that will drive me to painting and it is a routine. I can expect a regular supply of inspirational thoughts to make me want to write something, but the impetus to paint, for me, is rare. Once I begin, I can eventually reach the point where flow takes over, but the pump, she must be primed.
OK, this horse's corpus has been battered enough. I grow weary of the whining and would like to move farther from myself to get a break.
More later,
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