Building skyscrapers of procrastination like an Ani song, I want to do everything but write this paper, even though it's interesting subject matter, but how does one condense an entire literary culture into 8-10 pages? I've never been a super-achiever but writing's one of the things I don't suck at academically, and so it's disorienting to get B's on my work even if it's not the most effort-intensive work and the course isn't for credit as it is.
I'm sitting at the kitchen table at a friend's house, where they've left me ice cream in the freezer and there is canine companionship and tea. I found the last holdout of rodentia behind my refrigerator attempting to gnaw its way through the metal towards the culinary delights of freezerburned hot peppers from the garden last year and the cucumbers molding in the crisper drawer.
It's hard to cook when your kitchen is small already and feels gross due to its unwanted inhabitants. So I cleaned the back up with the vacuum and threw the uneaten rat poison into the hole with a pair of tongs and call my dad and vent about the little bastards. A few minutes later I hear little teeth munching away and I'm past the point of feeling bad.
I figure this is one of those Important Life Lessons which are generally unpleasant but "build character" and there's no way in hell I ever want to be a homeowner even if I wonder if I'll be living in grungy cheap apartments in aesthetically pleasing but ultimately sketchy environs hoping that nothing really bad happens. I picked up this book at a library booksale because I'm eternally amused by vintage graphic design and have a terrible sense of humor but also because it looked like it was full of practical knowledge for old houses like the double I live in.
And now, another week, a week of working two nights, feeding cats, walking dogs, writing this paper, wondering how I used to write four or five at a time, though I guess it was the only thing I was doing then...
It was too beautiful outside this weekend to sit around inside, and I wandered through the woods alone, picking my paths carefully so I don't become a statistic through either my clumsiness or someone's ill intentions, with my camera aimed at the sparkle of creeks and the shimmer of the last leaves clinging golden to bare branches and the textures of sandstone ledges. Pictures in abundance tomorrow for those who care, but I was exhilarated to be wandering through piles of fallen leaves surrounded by trees and rocks as far I could see on a sunny Sunday afternoon in November in a t-shirt. These times are too good to let them slip away.