I'm sitting in my office drinking my morning macchiato. E. brought bagels in for everyone, and I love bagels, so that was a nice surprise. And a welcome change from his usual Krispy Kremes, which I no longer eat.
I haven't felt much like writing lately. No. That's not true. I have felt like writing, but there's been a severe lack of communication between my brain and my hands. Too much effort, some days, to pick up a pen, or tap on keys.
I've slipped back into recluse mode these days. It's bad, I know, cutting myself off from people, especially people I've only recently met IRL, and really would like to get to know better, but I'm in a mood where I'm snippish and bitchy all the time, and I just don't think people who don't live with me should have to deal with that. For that matter, I don't think should have to deal with that, either, and I really try to just go hide with a book when I can't bite my tongue, and he's been so patient. . .
I started a short story, and let read the beginning, but a) I suck at fiction and b) the characters are telling me that there will be a sex scene, and I'm not sure I can write the scene without it being cheesy and stupid. There's a series of essays running through my head, most of which will end up in OD, not LJ, but the story is first and foremost in my brain, and even the other ideas battering at me won't be released until I figure out how to finish it.
I've spent the last two nights reformatting computers. My laptop decided that it would no longer let me open O2k stuff – anything – or play dvd's, so I spent Sunday doing that (after the taxes were done, and between naps), and then last night I reformatted the Sony, and feeling extremely stupid, because after searching for half an hour for the Certificate of Authenticity for WinMe (yes, I know, sucky OS, but it lets the pen-tablet/monitor work)I realized that it was, in fact, taped to the side of the computer, and on top of that, I didn't even need the damned number. I was angry at myself because I thought I'd lost it, and after three years as a Gateway tech, I know better than to start a format w/o having all my media handy.
My weekend was completely self-indulgent. I spent Saturday morning at the salon, getting a spa pedicure, a manicure (love the feeling of hot parrafin between my fingers), my eyebrows waxed, among other things…Said – Azam's husband – acts as host to the women in the salon, and kept bringing me hot tea with lime, and offering cake, which I kept declining. After a long nap, I stirred and we went to the mall, where I bought all new makeup, and more clothes (can there ever be enough clothing in one's closet?) and one of those herbal paks that you nuke and then drape over your shoulders. I should really bring it to work, but the microwave here is disgusting.
I'm almost done with the novel Stones from the River, the last of my recommendations from Princess Ella at OD.
wrote about Rostropovich, and ever since, my cello has been glaring at me. “You haven't played me in weeks,” it murmurs in it's low, burred voice. “It's not so hot that you need to worry about over tightening my strings. I'm lonely. Play me.” Part of the problem with me playing is that when I've been typing all day at work, my arm aches too much to hold a bow when I come home. And while I want a spiffy new lightweight graphite bow, I can't really justify the price of one. And admittedly, I hate to practice with my husband home. I need the freedom to make mistakes, or to work on one section of an etude for an hour, if need be. And I can't do that with him in the house.
Still, since I've told that I'm not playing 7th Sea any more, I'll have Friday nights to devote to music and writing. And I'm looking forward to those blocks of me-time.
Tuesday by Melissa Bartell is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.