The problem with muses is this: once you acknowledge their existence, they scamper away for a while, as if to make you realize just how crucial they really are. Mine have done so. While normally I find that stringing words together requires no effort, for the last week my well has run dry. My brain isn’t functioning the way it should. I’m easily distracted, unfocussed, and spend far too much time sleeping.

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I’ve been complaining that I have nothing to read. Anyone who’s seen my shelves would argue that point, so I shall elaborate: I have nothing new to read. I’ve sworn off buying books til after we move, though I’m sorely tempted to hit the used bookstore closest to me, and see if I can find some missing books in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Darkover and am frustrated by the gaps in the story, where I don’t have the books.

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I hesitate to put this in print, but, we think we may have found a buyer for the house. He’s meeting with E. on Tuesday. More on that, then.

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We went to see The Village last night. I realize critics have panned it, but I don’t generally base my movie choices on what critics think. It was nothing like The Sixth Sense, and not even as good as Signs, but was entertaining enough. It’s a moody piece, and feels like a short story that was expanded to fill a movie-length timeslot, but visually it was interesting, and the soundtrack, featuring a lot of slightly dissonant solo violin, was hauntingly beautiful.

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My month has begun. (August is my month because my birthday is in it. As there are no other holidays, no one’s ever quibbled over my claim. However, if your birthday is in August, I’m willing to share.) I turn 34 this year. I don’t feel old, or anything, but I do feel like perhaps – just perhaps – I should know by now what I want to be when I grow up. Something to work harder on, I suppose.

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And on that note, I am picking up a book, brewing coffee, and going out to lounge on the patio for a while.