Okay it's cold, unreasonably so, and I've spent my extra winter weather day away from the library mostly huddling under blankets and kitties, but also some of it writing. It feels like a little bit of extra stolen time, so I used it to start on a completely new series, one semi-inspired by the pictures of this house. I suppose since the last thing I worked on was poems about the apocalypse, it's no wonder I would be both eerily attracted to and haunted by this. Since I spent much of my eighties childhood after watching The Day After plotting how me and my family could survive in our basement should the Russians get unruly, it's not all that surprising. Plus, you know me and anything mid-century decor (no matter how horrible). I've written a good chunk of pieces and will continue working on it throughout the week.
I've been out a few times in the snow since Friday running errands, but I am itchy with cabin fever and ready to go back to work and back to the studio. I like structure and routine and time without it just makes me sort of lazy and much less productive. I always think of this when I think of retreats and colonies and the lack of day jobs. The dream of all that free and unencumbered time to write and make art is horribly shiny and tempting, but I feel like I'd end up wasting it.