I recline in the silence doing nothing.
Doing nothing. Downloading, glancing, writing. Doing nothing.
I could be, should be, writing the paper due last Thursday and the presentation from last Tuesday that computer thwarted to next week, or the reading the notes on Lady Chatterley’s Lover, or starting my final paper for Shakespeare that all the research is done for, that the outline is already drawn up for.
Instead I recline in silence doing nothing. Not even gaming. Or drinking tea. Or listening to music. Or reading. Or writing up the books I bought.
I took My Girl to the book sale at our nearest library, told Winter I wasn't buying much last night. Oh, what a lie. Library's have so many nice classical books and my hook is set tight. At least four of them were gifts. Three for Christmas and one for maybe Christmas, or maybe now.
Last night was emotionally dismal. I am not a bowling and bar type of girl, but Winter made the end of my night better. Radio oracle for the night was 'yes it seems as though I'm going nowhere...really frelling fast'.
Which really the song, Incubus's Nowhere Fast, now that I've found lyrics, strikes a cord in me. The me of the last few weeks. Of the restless foggy place.
And now, with the sitting doing nothing.
The aim of tonight is to write/do two of the four things mentioned earlier. Maybe the booklist, too.
And all four by the end of tomorrow. At least three main and half the paper, or three-fourths of it. Especially since the only possible plans are tonight's symphony, which is entirely a maybe, and tomorrow morning's planning meeting.
Many, many hours still left in the weekend.
Not really a good justified reason at all.
Yet the sitting, doing nothing.
I could be, should be, writing the paper due last Thursday and the presentation from last Tuesday that computer thwarted to next week, or the reading the notes on Lady Chatterley’s Lover, or starting my final paper for Shakespeare that all the research is done for, that the outline is already drawn up for.
Instead I recline in silence doing nothing. Not even gaming. Or drinking tea. Or listening to music. Or reading. Or writing up the books I bought.
I took My Girl to the book sale at our nearest library, told Winter I wasn't buying much last night. Oh, what a lie. Library's have so many nice classical books and my hook is set tight. At least four of them were gifts. Three for Christmas and one for maybe Christmas, or maybe now.
Last night was emotionally dismal. I am not a bowling and bar type of girl, but Winter made the end of my night better. Radio oracle for the night was 'yes it seems as though I'm going nowhere...really frelling fast'.
Which really the song, Incubus's Nowhere Fast, now that I've found lyrics, strikes a cord in me. The me of the last few weeks. Of the restless foggy place.
And now, with the sitting doing nothing.
The aim of tonight is to write/do two of the four things mentioned earlier. Maybe the booklist, too.
And all four by the end of tomorrow. At least three main and half the paper, or three-fourths of it. Especially since the only possible plans are tonight's symphony, which is entirely a maybe, and tomorrow morning's planning meeting.
Many, many hours still left in the weekend.
Not really a good justified reason at all.
Yet the sitting, doing nothing.