The semester is over. The summer lurches to life, not that it's not always summer here, in this land without seasons. I am bushwhacking my way through a week of professional obligations and otherwise slouching on the giant exercise ball I use for a chair and staring deeply into the cycloptic eye of my computer. My novel takes shape at its usual pace. Another month, I'm giving myself, to finish it.
We don't really plan the same way we did years ago (well, speaking for myself), not cloaking our fantasies in as much flesh as we used to. I think we use another logic now, having accustomed ourselves to improvisation, knowing that something is always on the horizon.
|The view when I get home from work.|