A picture of impatience

In my draw-phase today I saw bright light over my shoulder and this shocking scene greeted me.

Except it was rotated some and flipped a bit. And there was no mbear.

I don't know if Reagan will wake up with sufficient time to get me fresh sketchbook scans before I want to post and sleep, and, hey! it's already 8am, so why not post now?

There is a small sketchbook I keep by the bed to draw in each time I wake up. It's become a delightful part of my day, and I am acres proud that I've been so consistent in using it. A few days ago as I tried to adjust my sleep schedule to the norms of my timezone, I made notation that the skipped date wasn't because I neglected to draw, simply that I neglected to awaken on the date in question. I suspect that something similar will happen again soon.

My days aren't exactly boring, but I feel as though my posts are. Today is one of the days when I'm torn between this being a private exercise in discipline and record-keeping and a public space that I want to be interesting, valid, valuable if by chance a human stops by. I know that unless I put out the aching effort of outreach and interconnection online and make traffic and discussion a goal, it probably won't happen.

If it is solely a private endeavor, practiced online for ease, are my writings going to be valuable to my future self? Hello? Do you hear me Future-Annie? Are you remembering this August of Invalidism? Are you recalling the summer of stress and limbo? The year of private shame?

Do you draw inspiration or anguish from the days indoors and all these hours of wishing I was writing letters? Facebook games are a daily reality, music isn't. Today the backblog count is over 1000, and there constant fight to keep the intense posts within the last month is knocking loudly at the front door. The laundry needs folding, the floor needs vacuuming, and you spent hours this 'morning' reading Midnight Sun and Twilight. The wounds, you need a shower, and you're not spending enough time with your husband.

I. Me. I'm not spending enough time with my husband. Even if it's a no fault problem, I'd be at fault if I didn't move towards solutions.

My tone is also getting increasingly acerbic when talking about who leaves the house and who doesn't. Who spends time with other people (in whatever faculty) and who doesn't.

And then I remember last year, and to what measures the situation was reversed. I worked outside the home, though seldom did I bring home tales of hijinx worth relating.

There's that tone again, creeping in even when there's nobody to convince.

Here I'm struck with twin turbines that are in no way attached to the same vehicle. One veers to the left and thrills me with the exhilaration of writing. Perhaps because I've done more reading as of late, when I feel myself playing the part of writer, not just journaler or person-who-can-use-a-keyboard, but a writer, I am excited by the feeling of power. This is not to imply that I'm good at it (although I believe in my own talent), only that crafting sentences and ideas out of words puts me in a place of feeling secure. Drawing can do this too, but does so much less frequently.

The other turbine (careening to the right) is the sudden odd drive to fold the laundry. Thankfully still strong after the detour. Whenever I have a strong impulse to do something out of the ordinary, I run with it! (Folding laundry is ordinary. Wantint to do it is not.)