January 26th, 2005

caillebotte_man at his window


Listening to rain again. Its pleasant sound is now being interfered with by the noise of early commuters, and the smell of car is tainting the formerly fresh air. Not even the longest nights of the year are long enough.

A while ago, I went woolgathering while waiting for Sluggo to cool following one of his fits. I did a lot more of that before he arrived here. I may be better at woolgathering than I am at anything else. The problem is that I have no way of telling for sure, as I never remember more than a few vague images once I've returned from these excursions. They leave me with the distinct feeling that I want to go back, though. But there sits Sluggo, insisting that his virtual world is better than my imaginary one. He's lying, of course. He only wants to lure me in so that he can do something terrible to me. Sluggo is the essence of reality.

Being a bit foggy-minded this morning, I think there's a good chance I could actually get to sleep before the dawn arrives. It will be a gray dawn, in any case, and wet. The clouds will discourage the sun from intruding too far into my room. As the pleasant night must end, it is best that it merge into a gray day, and the day not come blaring into being. Say goodnight, Sluggo. No more of your lies for now.
gericault_raft of the medusa 1

Quiet Rantlet

Lately I've been paying very little attention to reality. I'll notice that it's there, and be aware of what it's doing, but then slip back into the more congenial world of my imagination. There have been disruptions of what feels like a rheumatic nature to my sleep. My neck and left hand don't like the cold and damp, and they will develop an ache sufficiently intense to wake me up. These disruptions are among the things which cause me to withdraw from reality. I think it's that I don't get enough REM sleep, and must compensate with daydreams.

That I too frequently find current reality both dull and frustrating contributes as well. The daily (or nightly, to be accurate) round of tasks, irregularly distributed as they are to provide frequent small disruptions, are not conducive to that extended concentration of which I am in need if I am to accomplish anything else. Projects pile up undone, and their gathering mass becomes intimidating. At the same time, there is no break from the monotony. I have done the same things again and again for years, and nothing changes. It all remains to be done yet again.

In short, I'm running out of energy. Objects begin to feel slightly heavier, tasks take slightly longer, and each disruption I encounter grows slightly more tiring to deal with. I suppose the only thing to do is develop a taste for butterscotch hard candy, and start looking for a retirement home. But rather than be practical, I wander off into the realms of imagination, where my energy is boundless and disruption is displaced by diversion. It's a downward spiral, I think, leading to no good end. I think maybe I need to throw some stuff out, before it gets too heavy to lift.

Oh, yeah. It's still raining.