Hi! Hi! What's up with you? What's up with me is that I have TOO MUCH
TIME and everything takes on this super-saturated intensity, and I
forget that the world is in fact going on as usual and it's just I'm
looking at it a bit funny. But anyway I thought maybe I should just say
what's facts and not so much feelings.
Facts are that we've been going to the cottage a lot. Pulling nails out of old boards, lots of chainsawing, watching various flowers (planted and otherwise) pop up. The current focus is on the front porch, which was caving in because the previous owners built it on sand. I am not making this up. So the whole thing came down and now we will figure how to put it back up, this time not on sand. Lots of time spent in pubs, on the train, and at the dining room table with graph paper trying to figure out what to do. Graph paper and booze is a winning combination.
Facts are that I've been sick for almost two weeks. I'm so much better now, but I still can't walk about without a box of tissues in hand. This is somewhat complicated when there are abrupt pressure changes, which render me entirely useless on the best of days. On Saturday I spent most of the day in bed, drifting between sleep and a pile of New Yorkers, jumping up with a periodic flood of motivation only to sink back down as everything went black and starry. Sunday was better, but still not great: the one thing I nearly managed to accomplish (picking up a glass from the floor) was thwarted when I smashed my face into a nail. Good times.
Facts are that freelancing is going pretty well, actually better than I would have thought. I am able to put food on my family! That said, it turns out that marketingspeak is my chalkboard fingernails, and that I am also not terribly happy with art critiques, of which I currently have a book's worth to do. I love the translator and it's not hard work, it's just irritating. Last week I did a medical paper on yawning, which was fine text-wise, but lead to more napping than was probably strictly necessary. Coming up this week: a travelogue. You guys, if I don't get a simple "stereotactically-inserted somethingsomething in the cortex" soon, I'm going to scream. Yes: "It's not brain surgery" for me means something else: it means it's actually hard work.
Facts are that I've thrown the last two books I've read, which is not good. I'm thinking of a New Campaign, reading Pulitzer winners (exceptions: Do not have to read the egregious Kavalier and Clay again). This started as an idea to read all the Man Bookers, but then I realized I've hated more than half of the ones I read, echh. So: Pullet Surprises it is. If I take off the ones I've read already, I've still got some 70 books to read, so this becomes part of the five-year plan, clearly, because I am not one of those book-a-week geniuses.
Facts are that I feel sometimes as though I'm making no progress as a person, and then I remember how much I was crying this time last year, and I feel ready to launch my own self-help channel. Now: your turn.
Facts are that we've been going to the cottage a lot. Pulling nails out of old boards, lots of chainsawing, watching various flowers (planted and otherwise) pop up. The current focus is on the front porch, which was caving in because the previous owners built it on sand. I am not making this up. So the whole thing came down and now we will figure how to put it back up, this time not on sand. Lots of time spent in pubs, on the train, and at the dining room table with graph paper trying to figure out what to do. Graph paper and booze is a winning combination.
Facts are that I've been sick for almost two weeks. I'm so much better now, but I still can't walk about without a box of tissues in hand. This is somewhat complicated when there are abrupt pressure changes, which render me entirely useless on the best of days. On Saturday I spent most of the day in bed, drifting between sleep and a pile of New Yorkers, jumping up with a periodic flood of motivation only to sink back down as everything went black and starry. Sunday was better, but still not great: the one thing I nearly managed to accomplish (picking up a glass from the floor) was thwarted when I smashed my face into a nail. Good times.
Facts are that freelancing is going pretty well, actually better than I would have thought. I am able to put food on my family! That said, it turns out that marketingspeak is my chalkboard fingernails, and that I am also not terribly happy with art critiques, of which I currently have a book's worth to do. I love the translator and it's not hard work, it's just irritating. Last week I did a medical paper on yawning, which was fine text-wise, but lead to more napping than was probably strictly necessary. Coming up this week: a travelogue. You guys, if I don't get a simple "stereotactically-inserted somethingsomething in the cortex" soon, I'm going to scream. Yes: "It's not brain surgery" for me means something else: it means it's actually hard work.
Facts are that I've thrown the last two books I've read, which is not good. I'm thinking of a New Campaign, reading Pulitzer winners (exceptions: Do not have to read the egregious Kavalier and Clay again). This started as an idea to read all the Man Bookers, but then I realized I've hated more than half of the ones I read, echh. So: Pullet Surprises it is. If I take off the ones I've read already, I've still got some 70 books to read, so this becomes part of the five-year plan, clearly, because I am not one of those book-a-week geniuses.
Facts are that I feel sometimes as though I'm making no progress as a person, and then I remember how much I was crying this time last year, and I feel ready to launch my own self-help channel. Now: your turn.
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