Nights and more nights and late nights, and I must remind myself of my chronological age and for god's sake stay home once in a while.
It's 8:22pm and I'm home and it's no small miracle.
But who can say no to poets and musicians and more poets, and yet poets again? Certainly not me.
Stepping the wrong way down north-facing concrete steps tonight, I slipped on wet moss, lush green and a runway for the unexpected. Sat plop-down, thanking and aware of my chronological age (just this once, though!) and the small padding it provides.
My job has suddenly shifted into unsettling territory, not threatened but lacking the accustomed fun. I plug myself in to my music, arm myself with paint brushes and squeezed-up tubes of oils and get to the business of it all, turned inward. In survival mode. Dying for a feck-all laugh-fest.
On a brighter note, I'm at work on a new project with possible promise, itching to move it forward. Note to self: patience.
Meanwhile, some of those in my closest circle struggle with issues of health — currently the land of the unknown and the yet-to-be-discovered. Nothing to do but love them even more.