Sunday, February 9, 2014


I had thought to get out of bed this morning at my workday time of five.  Despite it being ostensibly a day of rest, I had wanted to get going early and see if I could in some way justify my own existence to myself through producing something more than I did yesterday.  But I am not off to a good start; I only rolled out of bed at about half past eight, spurred by a full bladder and cats, and it is taking me longer to write what I want to write in this webspace than I am accustomed to it taking.  (Woe is me, I know, and boo hoo, little baby.)

This could be a place to wax rhapsodic, to go on in some impassioned self-investigation of the causes of what seems to be an instance of writer's block.  But I think I have done it before, and too often already, and I know that nobody wants to read about it.  (And one of the cats may be signaling objections to it, too; another gassy excretion seems to be in process as I type.)

This could be a place to comment about the Sochi Olympics...were I following the Olympics this time around.  I am not, however; I usually do not watch the Winter Games.  I do not come from a place that typically has winter, so I do not identify with the Winter Games' sports the way I do with those of the Summer Games, in some of which I have some small experience.  I have not followed the controversies surrounding the event in any detail, although I am aware of Russia's statutes on homosexuality as being behind even those of the United States (which are themselves behind Scotland and South Africa) and of the...interesting construction in Sochi (which is paralleled in the United States, particularly as pertains to the water supply in some places).  In all honesty, I find it somewhat difficult to care about what is happening in the land whose greatest warrior has always been the current season; there are things at home that need fixing.

This could, instead, be a place to comment about something of note.  But I am not sure what it is that I can say that is of note.  My days are different only in that the temperature outside is lower than that with which my upbringing made me familiar, and the wind-swept plains oblige me to be exposed to such things more than did life in The City.  The people with whom I interact are as they were in warmer days and as I expect that they will be again when the warmer days return (doubtlessly to as much complaint as the cold has been provoking).  The work I have to do with them will be much the same, as well.  It is very much the normal I discussed before, a standard that, while varying, very much follows a predictable pattern; it is a basic rhythm and bass line over which a melody is improvised, but those who know me know that I have never been much of a soloist.

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