I have not been in the writing head, the writing groove. I haven't been hearing my own narrative in my head. (Could that be because of the books I've been listening to?) And, I have been trying to refocus the way I do "work" and some life things, part of that slow down/move forward mantra. And I do need focus and discipline.
I have found it useful to not get too ambitious with changing habits. I might have mentioned this earlier in the year, but B1 sent me a list of ways to keep things more organized, less cluttered. The one I have really been working on is to do immediately what can be done in five minutes or less. I find myself wanting to put off doing the few dishes in the sink, or cleaning the litter box because I want to read or get back to watching something or whatever else I might be doing that is more pleasurable. Then a little mental bell goes off reminding me of that statement, and I am almost always able to focus on the task at hand and delaying that "gratification" or urge.
In other news, or whatever, I have had two great dreams about work! I haven't this positive in about five years about being in the workplace. When I browse thrift stores, I think about what I could wear to work instead of what I am going to lounge or cook or work around the house in.
And, although I still wake up fairly frequently during the night, I am using few sleeping aids and not waking up so blue, so hopeless.
So there you go. I am still not full of crackling creative energy and great ideas, and I still haven't gotten my printer to work (although I did make some progress) but feeling a bit more hopeful.
I very much liked this poem which arrived in my in-box this morning:
Costumes Exchanging Glancesby Mary Jo Bang
The rhinestone lights blink off and on.Pretend stars.
I'm sick of explanations. A life is like Russell said
of electricity, not a thing but the way things behave.
A science of motion toward some flat surface,
some heat, some cold. Some light
can leave some after-image but it doesn't last.
Isn't that what they say? That and that
historical events exchange glances with nothingness.
Now, that I think of it, Poetry Magazine was in my dream last night, too. I loved subscribing to it. The letters from readers were so passionate and well-written. When I sold my books and moved out of Park Slope, I kept all my back issues of Poetry. I look forward to being reunited with them.
Poor Cooder. Emmylou is the Princess of Enthusiasm and keeps ambushing Her Quiet Blind Self. Some lap time has become de rigueur though and that is nice.