feeling heavy
This morning the same heavy tired feeling in bed, a sluggish desire to sleep on after Kimmie had risen. The song filtering through my earplugs: "Sunday Bloody Sunday" by U2.
No further progress of cold symptoms, so I dosed myself with more echinacea. Then, in the cold gray of morning: back to the writing rockpile.
Morning notes: Peoples, Nations and Cultures and Alexander the Great and A History of Warfare. Kimmie angry and irritable as she came down to leave.
"Here it is eight o'clock," she said, "and all because of my fucking hair."
"Hair happiness," I said mildly, "it's so hard to find."
She wrenched a black winter coat from the closet, yanked it on, looked in the mirror closet-doors, and tore it back off.
"That coat's hideous. I'm giving it away."
She ripped another coat from the closet and angrily thrust her arms into the sleeves. I helped her into her backpack and she was out the door and gone--a single crisp salute to me as she strode down the sidewalk, tripping briefly.
I took extra time over my morning stretches, since I've had back pain again (mild) for the past couple of days. I've been procrastinating going to the chiropractor, in fact have been procrastinating everything. (I did make an appointment later on.)
Then, feeling heavy, back to chapter 19: the chapter that just won't go away. More tinkering with the notes: how does Menahem feel? What is the train of his thought? Type type type. Then back into the chapter itself: modifying the opening stretch yet again, changing Menahem's outlook and thoughts. Can't be bothered to smooth the new stuff in properly; it would waste even more time. I'll just drop it in and fix it all up later in draft 2. I have a strong feeling that the new material is not better, merely different.
I meddled with it rather joylessly until about noon. Then I sat awhile trying to pretend I was going to do more. Eventually I opened up my journal and quickly typed in a dream I'd had in the morning. It was a new variation on a recurring dream about trying to use a public washroom, and finding it awkward/exposed/filthy.
As I type these words it's 2:48 p.m. I'm scheduled to provide Kimmie with limo service from work to her hair stylist at 4:00. Maybe I should do some dishes.
No further progress of cold symptoms, so I dosed myself with more echinacea. Then, in the cold gray of morning: back to the writing rockpile.
Morning notes: Peoples, Nations and Cultures and Alexander the Great and A History of Warfare. Kimmie angry and irritable as she came down to leave.
"Here it is eight o'clock," she said, "and all because of my fucking hair."
"Hair happiness," I said mildly, "it's so hard to find."
She wrenched a black winter coat from the closet, yanked it on, looked in the mirror closet-doors, and tore it back off.
"That coat's hideous. I'm giving it away."
She ripped another coat from the closet and angrily thrust her arms into the sleeves. I helped her into her backpack and she was out the door and gone--a single crisp salute to me as she strode down the sidewalk, tripping briefly.
I took extra time over my morning stretches, since I've had back pain again (mild) for the past couple of days. I've been procrastinating going to the chiropractor, in fact have been procrastinating everything. (I did make an appointment later on.)
Then, feeling heavy, back to chapter 19: the chapter that just won't go away. More tinkering with the notes: how does Menahem feel? What is the train of his thought? Type type type. Then back into the chapter itself: modifying the opening stretch yet again, changing Menahem's outlook and thoughts. Can't be bothered to smooth the new stuff in properly; it would waste even more time. I'll just drop it in and fix it all up later in draft 2. I have a strong feeling that the new material is not better, merely different.
I meddled with it rather joylessly until about noon. Then I sat awhile trying to pretend I was going to do more. Eventually I opened up my journal and quickly typed in a dream I'd had in the morning. It was a new variation on a recurring dream about trying to use a public washroom, and finding it awkward/exposed/filthy.
As I type these words it's 2:48 p.m. I'm scheduled to provide Kimmie with limo service from work to her hair stylist at 4:00. Maybe I should do some dishes.
Labels: dreams, everyday life, Kimmie, the writing process
posted by paulv at
11:28 AM
1 Comments:
Oh dear, poor Paul developing a cold and poor Kimmie suffering from PMS (bad moodswings and bad hair always go with that, for me). Get better soon, both of you.
By
Gabriele Campbell, at November 16, 2005 7:54 AM
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