It's not as cool as it should be for late March - but it is at least cool, and the grey wet day (not actively raining, so evocatively still) lends a layer to Sunday morning time. I'm hunched forward over the laptop on the beautiful coffee table, glasses perched low on my nose, peering sporadically over the rims at "Law & Order" circa Lenny and Julia Roberts' ex boyfriend - an episode, oddly enough, featuring a supporting role with Jennifer Garner, whose charm and talent have always been lost enough on me I can't particularly deny them, nor care.
Revisions depress me. The work as it goes feels like progress; then I back away, look at the whole thing, and see how little I have done.
Another friend excitedly said, "Oh, I'd love to be a reader for you" this week, and - when told what it actually requires - evaporated. This happens. Sigh.
The birds are the one most consistent thread of noise, of life, these days. They're quieter today. But still making sure I know it is spring.
Today will be a bit of cleaning. As little as I can make it, and still feel I have done enough. A bit of revision. Hopefully more than it seems to ever look like. Never enough. And, perhaps, the final few pages of my last "lunch book" - the novels I take to work, and read over my non-lunch hours, this last one close enough to its close I brought it home and took in a new one to replace it. When they get close to the end, it's best to read them to completion without interruption - without the office setting.
I may do laundry; I know I'll ignite some lights around here. I may even swipe a few windows with some cleaner, because the dinge is depressing me.
Just a few hours. The weekend will be over.
Quiet Sunday time. Not a bad place to be. Never a slow (as long-lasting) as it promises you it will be ...
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