the week, in brief, according to my iPhone
Sunday: Star Wars; Monday: mopey; Tuesday, cherries; Wednesday: meat sale at Safeway; Thursday: paying for pain; Friday: firepit; Saturday: oppositional defiant disorder; Sunday… I don’t want to do anything, but I took Flora to Value Village and Hot Topic and cleaned house.
the week, slightly expanded, according to my memory
Honestly, I don’t know what the fuck happened to the week. It flew by at an absolutely insane speed. I do remember this—Cinder had a chem lab due and about five math tests, including a unit final, and he got a fucking 94% on the Rationals unit final even though the only thing I knew about rationals that I could impart to him was that the denominator of a fraction can never be a zero (I think? am I right)—and we went to see Flora and Ender’s facilitator about their year-end… no, wait, that was last Friday… what did we do this week? Math, chem, math, chem, physics… drove Flora to Tang Soo do, but only once, Sean took her on Thursday and Friday, what did I do on Thursday and Friday night?
I had an event on Saturday, so a little bit of prepping for that, but really, not that much, and a big event in the pipe the end of the month, but really… seriously… where did this week disappear to?
This is why I keep a process journal. So I can look at it, and go—oh. Right. ALL THAT STUFF. All the things.
And this is why my work process journal is not separate from my life / kids / personal process journal. “2000 words on AIC, math with Cinder, laundry, Safeway, yoga nidra, SS post.”
All the things.
Where did it go?
…time flies when you’re on deadline
…and even meditation doesn’t stop it.
Still. I have all the time I need. I take pause on Monday, Saturday, to chill. Whiskey. Cigar.
friends far away
It’s funny, you know, it doesn’t matter if you’re in Edmonton or Colombia—if he’s in Syria or Red Deer. Away is away, and I miss you.
I have not been reading or writing any these days. Poetry requires time to be slow. You cannot rush reading a moment, and you cannot rush writing a poem.
But when a poem comes… it stops time.
Prose… not so much, actually. With prose, time flies.
So. I guess that’s what happened. 19K new words, a synopsis, a pitch. Among other things.
Except when it crawls…
Saturday, I spend with my writer tribe. I’m supposed to spend it seducing readers, but it turns into more of a writer thing. It’s all right. Apparently, I desperately needed that, because I am so fucking happy at the end of the day… and silly.
Well. That seems a good note on which to end this week. I remember, now, on Sunday, I felt angry and disappointed, resentful. But I don’t have those feelings now. The week ends, glorious.
—->>>POSTCARDS FROM CUBA
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