dulcetly...notes on a bookish life

A few nights ago, I dreamed that me and my sister had inherited an old Victorian apartment that had been abandoned, but was filled with all sorts of interesting things--a large vintage typewriter collection, armoires and sideboards, beautiful old bed linens, not to mention it was a huge maze of a place that seemed to open onto room after room of treasures and glorious space. Everyday we would dicover a new room, new lovely things. We decided to live there in separate parts of the apartment, almost like a duplex with a shared kitchen. This immediately followed the dream where we were on a vacation and my mother hated me for some unknown reason and locked me in a room while the entire extended family was outside of it having fun. My subconscious is a very odd place lately.

Otherwise, this week has a bear, wrapping, packaging and prepping for the open studio, laying out new books, assembling the latest the titles, and packing orders. As usual, I feel as if I'm never really ready for such things, always more things to make, more details to attend to. Meanwhile, the cold makes it hard to crawl out from my cozy bed. I'm beginning to feel like each winter is something I have to survive, to emerge intact from on the other side, tattered and barely alive sometimes. Meanwhile I reward myself for just about everything with hot chocolate and new clothes to soften up the edges just a little. It also turned out that what I thought was oversensitivity to caffeine was probably not that at all, which means I was just nervous and jittery because I was nervous and jittery.