…like a circle ’round the sun, another of which I completed yesterday in quiet, largely solitary fashion. Having accepted no obligations nor made promises, I gave in to weariness, and slept in for the first time in months. Sun was shining and heat was rising when I finally got up and moved slowly out from the bedroom. Over the day I had moments where I made note of domestic chores that had moved high on the list, and all day long I did none of them. I practiced tai chi chuan. I played bouzouki. I spent a couple of hours working on a portrait of a handsome sow-thistle that I may have penciled sufficiently. Progress on the drawing sits at a point where it’s not entirely clear to me whether I continue to add necessary detail before switching to colored pencils, or simply procrastinate the switch in media from fear of ruining a good beginning. Inconclusively, I placed the drawing where I could contemplate it as I turned to other things, first of which was part 3 of Rose Moon. I spent hours on Rose Moon. Productive, rich hours that saw a completed pass through the manuscript and carried me to a hungry hour. I put fiction aside in favor of a moderately indulgent restaurant supper, capped by a run to Wheatsville Co-op for ordinary supplies. After, I played bouzouki. More method characterized the evening session, as I practiced whistling while playing, developing skills for a short project I hope to submit to The Church of the Friendly Ghost for possible inclusion in their anniversary celebration this fall. I find it slightly easier to whistle while playing than to sing while playing. Simple ornamental picking—the odd flourish— is within technical reach as I whistle. A dullard, though, when I honk out lyrics in English or Dvarsh my accompaniment collapses to bare strumming rhythm. Fortunately, my whistle is more melodious than my voice. The activity was self-reinforcing.
The day was unmarked by practical chores until the very end, when I realized at least one load of laundry needed to cycle. Other than that, I did not clean house, I did not get a haircut, I did not work on tedious obligatory tasks related to Confabule. I did none of that. Of course, tedium was still present, in ranks and files, waiting outside the bedroom when I rose THIS morning, earlier than usual, on the hustle, required by obligation and promise to re-insert myself into briefly slipped structures. The work day was a long interplay of spreadsheet fields calculating one across the other. I was there, directing data through blighted economic acequias, performing my duties per spec. Even so, the opening paragraphs of part 4 of Rose Moon went to lunch with me, I whistled as I drove, and I came home to the decision that I should, indeed, spend another day on the base drawing before starting to add color to a rather handsome portrait of sow-thistle. As birthdays go, yesterday was not a bad one. As Mondays go, today was not the worst. Tomorrow looms, and with it, chores.