Mortaring Bricks
Apr. 4th, 2016 10:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraSaw a rather adorable little fox in the woods yesterday. Maybe a vixen with a litter of pups nearby. Mangy-looking coat and out in mid-afternoon – which at first made me think, Rabies! But she or he moved well, and when I read up on foxes, I found out that though they’re crepuscular hunters, it’s not uncommon to see them out in the afternoon. Also, they molt in April.
The fox just curled up beneath a tree like any dog in a patch of sunlight. Too far away for a photograph.
Woke up this morning to another installment of winter. Except that this is actually more snow than we got all winter.
Spent the weekend working on the novel. But in such full-on Crisis of Faith mode that I wondered why I was working on the novel. Surely, it is no fucking good at all.
The best times writing – at least from the writerly point of view – is when one gets so totally caught up in the alternative reality that one is creating that some part of one’s brain is living it.
This weekend didn’t feel like that.
This weekend felt like mortaring bricks.
Were the bricks building anything at all?
There’s no feedback loops for projects like this and seemingly, they go on for-fuckin’-evah. Plus nobody reads anymore. It’s kinda like I’ve spent my life in service to a ruined god.
###
Long conversation with Max who seems to be doing really well though “leave of absence” is not entirely off the table.
“I’ve been sad all this week,” I told him. “I finally realized, Right… My mother died this time of year. And Tom died this time of year.”
“Do people do that?” Max asked. “I mean associate people’s deaths with the particular time of year that they died?”
And I immediately realized: Right. It’s something old people do. Not young people.
Like being trapped in one’s very own special Ingmar Bergman Wild Strawberries snowglobe. Or somethin’.
So, it's official: I'm old!
More adorable pix of RTT auditioning for Entourage: The Syracuse Years:
The fox just curled up beneath a tree like any dog in a patch of sunlight. Too far away for a photograph.
Woke up this morning to another installment of winter. Except that this is actually more snow than we got all winter.
Spent the weekend working on the novel. But in such full-on Crisis of Faith mode that I wondered why I was working on the novel. Surely, it is no fucking good at all.
The best times writing – at least from the writerly point of view – is when one gets so totally caught up in the alternative reality that one is creating that some part of one’s brain is living it.
This weekend didn’t feel like that.
This weekend felt like mortaring bricks.
Were the bricks building anything at all?
There’s no feedback loops for projects like this and seemingly, they go on for-fuckin’-evah. Plus nobody reads anymore. It’s kinda like I’ve spent my life in service to a ruined god.
###
Long conversation with Max who seems to be doing really well though “leave of absence” is not entirely off the table.
“I’ve been sad all this week,” I told him. “I finally realized, Right… My mother died this time of year. And Tom died this time of year.”
“Do people do that?” Max asked. “I mean associate people’s deaths with the particular time of year that they died?”
And I immediately realized: Right. It’s something old people do. Not young people.
Like being trapped in one’s very own special Ingmar Bergman Wild Strawberries snowglobe. Or somethin’.
So, it's official: I'm old!
More adorable pix of RTT auditioning for Entourage: The Syracuse Years:
