Errands run, lunch consumed, my knee bounces in agitation, my head swirls with half formed thoughts. It must be Monday.
I am trying to use my nervous energy in constructive ways, but piles of laundry taunt me from the bedroom floor, piles of papers wave at me from the countertop, piles of blankets and pillows harumph in disgust on the couch, waiting their turn to be folded neatly and put behind the chair. All of these conspire to make me feel like I would be better off to read a book, or write, or draw or sew or crochet a stitch or two.... but even those things sound like too much work.
Eventually I will overcome my inertia and get going. You wait and see...
My new year's journal sits quietly at my elbow, waiting for January 1st to roll around. Though actually I won't be writing in there until Sunday because I don't write on the Shabbath.
I have this irrational fantasy that THIS year I will be writing wondrously scintillating essays in there that will be eagerly pursued by scholars eons from now. But then I snap out of it and have to put away my delusions of grandeur in favor of the more rational possibility that I will continue to scribble away like the madwoman that I have become.
It's a promising looking little thing. Homey and unpretentious. Here, have a look....
[album 65561 Journal2.JPG]
I realize it's pretty lame, writing in an online diary about preparations to write in a really real journal. . . . In fact, you could make any number of derogatory observations about my behavior today. I would be forced to concede your points. I can barely make sense of me myself the day.
Ach well, mayhap I'm sliding into another dimension. One where the madwomen are the sane ones, and all the so called "sane" people talk gibberish to themselves on the light rail.
A dirty sock from the laundry pile, just crawled in here and nipped my ankle. I'd better throw it in the washing machine.
I will try to get my wits about me before I write tomorrow. I'll get a basket and go wit picking. . .