make like a tree and get out once in a while

Back to work after a week's vacation, and in truth, I am renewed. Lots of food, sleep, TV, PS2, Heroes 4, and uh, sleep. Lots to do of course, and I'm sure there's crises hidden in the woodwork for me as soon as somebody shows up to tell me where and how. But in the meantime I have Coldplay on the CD player and am generally optimistic about the day.

It's true, although I'm a bit sheepish to admit why, that I really really can't wait till Heroes the TV show comes back. Every weekend a part of me is dreading Monday morning when I have to come in to work. While the show was on, I could spend the entire weekend offsetting that dread with the thought, "yes, but you'll get to come home after work Monday and watch your favorite show." I don't really feel that way about any other TV show. With the possible exception of MASH. But I've gotten spoiled there because the show's been over and complete since I was a tiny girl and besides, we've always got a DVR full of episodes.

What I'm really feeling sheepish about is the not-writing thing. I've had a look at me and Dave's friend Geds's blog, Accidental Historian, and HE spends HIS blog posts wiritng about moral and mythological themes in science fiction, among other things. Whereas I make...rambling "diary entry" blog posts that even I get bored with sometimes.

So what should I do? Resolve in '08 to write a poem a week or something? That seems doable. Maybe I should start with a few sonnets or something. Sonnets are so damn easy.

The thing came to me last night, the feeling of itching to write. I won't say it passed, but it faded, and I didn't have any ideas or really motivation to write. I was just sitting there playing on the computer and watching TV with Dave (as I spent most of this glorious past week) and whoosh, there it was. So there it is. I can write, I know I still can, but I feel like I don't see the point. Thinking about it makes me grumbly and pouty, like thinking about a friend I haven't called in way too long to the point where I'm feeling guilty enough that the actual guilt hinders me from calling even though nothing has actually gone wrong. I feel that way about the whole process of self-expression. Frustrated with myself and whining under my breath that none of it means anything or matters so what's the point, anyway.

On the plus side, that's really the biggest complaint I have at the moment. Which when you get down to it is a pretty mild and intellectual sort of a complaint. Indicating that many and most other things are very well indeed.

gloam over there, old soldier, said the tree
you stomp across my crown three sixty five
but now you slink, low, purpling, from me
though your great footsteps keep my leaves alive