Late Into The Evening
How many of my Sunday entries start with a "moan, groan" beginning that builds (one hopes) rather quickly to a "moan! groan!" climax, usually about work or a diminished interest in film, music or fiction? If I stretch it out I can usually get a rephrased "moan, groan!" or two into the middle. None of these are long enough to have what one could actually call a middle.
I was thinking about this last night. What I do in a week is work, write, walk and photograph. Work, write, walk and photograph. Is this life? Don't most people make time to do other things like laundry? Couldn't I trim one from the schedule? Work would be nice and I could manage it if I lived in a more hallucinatory reality. My thought is the writing. The world could survive without another "moan, groan!" soliloquy. The world could survive without this one.
I went into the office this morning for two hours after breakfast to clear my desk and make a list of tasks for tomorrow. I thought about spending an additional ten minutes, maybe twenty minutes, to finish an expense report (which is due) and fill out forms needed for reimbursement of expenses related to the hernia operation. Things that are costing me not so much money as embarrassment they're not done. The brain refused. The brain was marginally willing to watch as I filed and futzed and cleared the trash, but it would not let me sit down and knock them out. Burn out, my son, burn out: The work, the photographs (possibly) and the journal. Last night was stare at the ceiling night, going through the "shift priorities" routine, shift priorities before the earth opens up and the sky falls down. These thoughts were a light that burned late into the evening.