On Sunday, I had an idea; on Monday, I executed; on Tuesday, I had results. On Wednesday, I worked like mad; on Thursday, I found out I didn’t have to; on Friday, I regrouped. On Saturday, I thought perhaps I’d fall in love—on Sunday, I will be disciplined.
Cinder writes his first quizzes of the semester. An 87.5% in math, 92% in science, no holes punched in the walls. I’d say “unschooling for the win,” except for all th eholes punched in the walls last semester.
You: Not feeling too smug?
Jane: No. Satisfied—but not smug.
Much of this week, I spend in Viking Hell. By which I mean it is so cold your snot and tears freeze before you finish locking your front door.
I am reading this:
Which do you think is more fun?
Jane: Come here. Talk to me. I feel I neglect you horribly these days.
Flora: I’m quite happy being neglected. Except for food. Can you please go buy some groceries?
Jane: But it’s minus 100 outside!
I ask Sean to stop at Safeway on his way home from work.
It’s like taking down a mammoth, 21st century Homo sapiens style.
From the process journal (Friday):
“Forgot to” … WHAT?
I don’t remember, I don’t remember, I don’t remember.
Wait. … Maybe?
What did I forget?
“She tells me I seem so very open. I tell her it’s only because she doesn’t know me well enough to see how much I don’t tell.”
I tell other writers nothing is sacred, and to never fall in love with their words.
But I quite like the promise of those ones.
Until Saturday night, it was a really good week; I only cried a little. Then I cried a lot.
It’s a good thing I planned to be disciplined, on Sunday.
You: I hate it when you vague-blog.
Jane: I hate it when you don’t appreciate how hard it is for me to share as much as I do share.
—->>>POSTCARDS FROM CUBA