Today was cold and grey and unspringlike; I didn't go out, I made myself dinner, I read a couple of books and a couple of scripts and worked on nothing except this story which I am still trying not to break. I don't seem to have the brain to work on anything else. I remember being able to multitask around fiction, but I suspect that was when I did not go years between completing stories. Both of the cats have been affectionate and inconvenient. I am telling myself it is not bad to have days like this.
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Active Entries
- 1: I might fail math if you don't move your shoulder
- 2: My old body that you buried with the mud and the timber
- 3: With life and so much loss, time has weighted us
- 4: Out in space, coast to coast
- 5: Like a sprig of yarrow caught in the dark
- 6: The moon still rises on everybody else
- 7: To the green field by the sea
- 8: Eating cereal, remembering the sky
- 9: We'll tell you of a blossom and of buds on every tree
- 10: Am I lost inside my mind?
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