Today has been tired and foggy headed, and I'm not sure whether it is vestigial certain romantic stuff, or the amazing book I've been absorbed in on the commute (Julianna Baggot's Pure) or just winter blues, but I feel dreamy and imprecise in neither a good or a bad way, almost as if there is a fuzzy soft cloud rotating around my head. I'm in full on production mode with the newest chaps, and am also knee deep in more landscape postcards. In an ideal world, there would be words to go with them, but I'm not there yet. Mostly I am just tired. This schedule, while definitely a little more flexible than the day shift horribleness, still only gives a me a few hours in the evening to work and still has me up way too early in the morning for prime functioning. Last night I finished another project in my kitchen clean-a-thon (arranging and cleaning the drawers near the stove that were littered with empty saran wrap boxes and odd contraptions that I never use.) and then worked on the paintings, so I was up til nearly 3am and then up at 9 to be to work by 11. If it weren't so cold, the lack probably wouldn't phase me, but it makes things abrasive in the winter, the harsh low sun, the vapor of people's breath, ice patches on the sidewalks. Tonight I am settling in to work on some orders that need to be filled and perhaps coming up with a cover for an upcoming title and scanning another one in. Then it's home and my book and probably some laundry (always exciting work on the homefront.)
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