cygnoir.net

Nothing good comes from the random days, the days spent flailing about one or two different poems or stories, the days with strangleholds on reason. Four times in the last hour I have written then deleted one line. Nothing fits right in the head.

It is best, on the random days, to let pieces be pieces, at peace.

._.-.

Torgi the cat is curled up next to me. Bedtime is his favorite time because he curls up in between us and purrs. Overcome with somnolent joy, his purrs pitch higher until he is trilling in his drowse.

._.-.

Recipes recently attempted and succeeded, at least in the barest sense of the word: Southwestern frittata, steak with ginger-butter sauce, pork tacos with mango salsa, baked eggs in ham cups. Concepts tested and learned: broiling, sauteing, searing, braising. Injuries: one minor burn to the left palm, one minor cut to the right index finger. New tools: black plastic measuring cups and spoons, stainless steel pots and pans, waxing confidence.

._.-.

My first-ever multi-day overnight-stay gaming convention, KublaCon, was both a blur and an amber-trapped memory. Although I love games, I have never self-identified as a gamer, perhaps because I avoid self-identifying as most things on principle. Still, I was among my people all weekend, and it felt good to be so.

._.-.

Pastimes neglected: writing, knitting, photography, World of Warcraft, website tinkering. Pastimes nudged vaguely: reading, crossword-puzzle-solving, cooking, geocaching.

._.-.

Right now I am in a boundary-setting mode, creating structures for productivity, reassessing priorities, and discarding inefficient patterns. This mode is dull, and I look forward to the messy thumb-painting of the next one, whichever it may be. I hope it involves wild, mad creation. I am overdue.