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desperanceI dunno, I seem to have lost it suddenly. I was okay this morning: finished off a project that's been occupying me for a week or two, sent it away, felt good about it. Went out for a walk, came home, thought I'd just tackle another short job - and nothing. Stale, flat and unprofitable.
I had meant to post a short piece about the stuff we fill in time with, the mortar between the bricks: f'rexample, today's finished project, which I agreed to do because I was asked and I'm crap at saying no, and besides there was money involved, and I need that. Only I found myself unexpectedly enjoying it, which I found interesting. So I was going to talk about that stuff. But then today's unfinished project failed to happen, and so did the post.
And I have somehow lost the charging-cable for my electric shaver, and this is fretting me unduly, to the point of paranoia. There's only one socket it can plug into, there is never any reason for it not to be there, and yet it is not there: which being true, it might be anywhere in the house, and my chances of finding it by looking are frankly slim. The chances of finding it before the power runs out of the shaver? Vanishingly slim.
So I get to wear a hairy head for a while. This is not a tragedy; and yet, and yet...
Things bulk out of proportion, which I do not take to be a good sign. Which upsets me more, when my own behaviour turns ominous. Sometimes I hate being knowing.
There was something else I meant to post about, too, but I've forgotten it. I could make a book out of the posts I've forgotten to write, to go with the book of stories I've forgotten. Oh, and the address-book of people I've forgotten. I hate being incompetent.
Also I hate gloomy & depressing posts, they're all so look-at-me-I'm-so-emo. This one nearly didn't happen. Twice. I was that close to turning the machine off; indeed, I was watching it count down to shutdown, but I stopped it. Twice.
I shall go to bed, where it doesn't matter whether I sleep or not; I have the radio, and a book, and cats. Middle of last night, Barry came and sprawled on me for half an hour, which is most unusual. This morning, Mac wanted skittish cuddles, which is not unusual at all, but always entertaining.
Oh, and I forgot to say, yesterday: bubble-and-squeak? Fried in duck fat. Personally rendered, from my own damn' duck.
I had meant to post a short piece about the stuff we fill in time with, the mortar between the bricks: f'rexample, today's finished project, which I agreed to do because I was asked and I'm crap at saying no, and besides there was money involved, and I need that. Only I found myself unexpectedly enjoying it, which I found interesting. So I was going to talk about that stuff. But then today's unfinished project failed to happen, and so did the post.
And I have somehow lost the charging-cable for my electric shaver, and this is fretting me unduly, to the point of paranoia. There's only one socket it can plug into, there is never any reason for it not to be there, and yet it is not there: which being true, it might be anywhere in the house, and my chances of finding it by looking are frankly slim. The chances of finding it before the power runs out of the shaver? Vanishingly slim.
So I get to wear a hairy head for a while. This is not a tragedy; and yet, and yet...
Things bulk out of proportion, which I do not take to be a good sign. Which upsets me more, when my own behaviour turns ominous. Sometimes I hate being knowing.
There was something else I meant to post about, too, but I've forgotten it. I could make a book out of the posts I've forgotten to write, to go with the book of stories I've forgotten. Oh, and the address-book of people I've forgotten. I hate being incompetent.
Also I hate gloomy & depressing posts, they're all so look-at-me-I'm-so-emo. This one nearly didn't happen. Twice. I was that close to turning the machine off; indeed, I was watching it count down to shutdown, but I stopped it. Twice.
I shall go to bed, where it doesn't matter whether I sleep or not; I have the radio, and a book, and cats. Middle of last night, Barry came and sprawled on me for half an hour, which is most unusual. This morning, Mac wanted skittish cuddles, which is not unusual at all, but always entertaining.
Oh, and I forgot to say, yesterday: bubble-and-squeak? Fried in duck fat. Personally rendered, from my own damn' duck.