Young Son: "This is my new home."
Emma J: "Okay."
YoungSon: "I mean it. I'm not coming out. All I need are some rations."
Emma J: ?
YoungSon: "And a pillow."
The house is full of builders.
That's not accurate. Downstairs, for example, there are no builders.
They are not puttering around the kitchen. They are not curled up in the book nook napping. They are not jumping out of closets.
They at least are not hiding in the laundry cupboards.
But the sound of sawing and hammering do fill the house. All that industry and progress where there was water-damaged laminate tile and swollen wood: it does my heart good.
How can I myself not leave off idleness (i.e. all the other things I do rather than writing) and commence again on those very very uncommon days when I do my proper work.
Blogging is too often a distraction. (I first wrote "Blagging" - Freudian?) And yet, for me, here in the hinterlands, otherwise far away from scribbling companions, the blog has been a lifeline. How to balance the good I get from reading and writing more immediately in the wider world with the time and effort each moment on the blogosphere takes from the deep delving and inward mining that is writing my real writing?
Divide and conquer, I thought, looking at the unwieldy vehicle that this Imaginary Bicycle has become and so I divided:
Dream Cycle for two-wheeled adventures,
more action, fewer words
Matter | Pattern for Living with Poetry
in a more formal sense
a table in the wilderness for mostly whole, local and fresh
"Recipes for Abundance"
why eye for daily photos
Am I the conquered or the conquering? Does division make me focused or schizophrenic? Only time will tell. But for now . . . back to the real writing (of which I hope to give you good report in the coming days.)