Sunday, July 01, 2012
SUNDAY, LAUNDRY SUNDAY
The weekend got away from me. I haven't gone walking in four days. Friday was movie night, followed by a revelation. Saturday and its night are a blur — and now here it is, Sunday, the only day to get things done. It's time to do laundry.
I may try to do some noodling on a work of fiction this afternoon; I actually said something out loud about it Friday night, so maybe I'll do the unthinkable and let someone read it. Dystopian story. I've been working on it since before the stroke, and in the past couple weeks the machine has been in top form. Words to sentences to paragraphs to pages: it's flowing out at a remarkable clip and it's not bad.
(Sure sure, it may seem a contradiction, the idea that I spew personal words on a blog without shame or a second thought but keep other writings in the vault. The blog is the journal, the letter. The dystopian stuff is a novel. Doesn't remove the contradiction, which is based on superstition: the writing version of the groom seeing the bride in her wedding dress before the ceremony. Letting someone see the serious stuff before it's done could be tempting trouble. Or — more likely — it could just puncture a stupid bit of nonsense mumbo-jumbo and remove one more hurdle in the road.
The peace from Friday night holds. The grail still glows. Happy Ron is running the joint today. He's not going to go looking for a reason to slow to a shuffle. Too much shit to do and not enough hours until early evening, when I'm going to have to unplug to get sleep (it's a 2 a.m. alarm for Monday). I'll whistle while I work, maybe even try to skip a step or two. I need to keep a spring in my step. Edith Head said you can have anything you want in life if you dress for it. You can have anything you want in life if you act like you want it. Even happiness, I hope.