where the writers are

20080804

20080804

I should be doing things around the place that I really don't like, so I get ideas for things about which I wish to write, or designs for new jewellery pop into my head.  I should trudge down the hill and collect some lemons from the plot down there, because I'd like some lemonade.  But it's one of those soft English days, not quite raining and not quite dry, that seem to lead me to introspection and Proustian remembrance.  The sun behind the clouds is making the air steamy from last night's downpour, and I haven't mowed the jungle in the lot, so it'll be messy work to get the lemons.  Maybe later.  I should wash the dishes, or the floor of my flat, or throw in a load of laundry, or one (or more) of a million other things.  Maybe later.  I hate cloudy days.  One of the reasons that I left Toronto was the superabundance of grey steamy days there, which contributed to a depression with which I still struggle.  I actually think Toronto had ten minutes of clear sunshine in the ten years I lived in it, and they were not contiguous.   When it's cold and damp, every joint aches.  When it's warm and steamy, every breath is a struggle.  When it's cloudy, every action seems to take deliberate effort.  So, I perseverate.  I stand in front of the kitchen counter and think about starting the dishes, turn away to start something else, turn back and think about starting the dishes and turn away thinking I'll get a different result this time.  It's worse than facing a blank screen when one wishes to write but can't get a good start, especially with a sore back to add to the unmotivation.  My mind wanders and produces little titbits that may amuse or interest, and I end up sitting and thinking and not accomplishing mcu of anything.  Tomorrow, I'll probably berate myself for my lack of action today, but for now, maybe I'll go watch a movie.