It’s late in the season.
Well past the regular harvest.
We’ve already had frost and snow, though not in my specific micro-climate.
The point is, it’s time to pack it in for the winter.
While the end of the outdoor green time of the year is slightly sad, fall is my favorite time of the year.
It has my favorite holidays.
Autumn has the best sunsets due to the particulate in the air and the angle at which our hemisphere faces the sun.
All these seasonal musings aside, I promise I do have a point:
it’s time to start setting up to grow indoors.
I should have brought in my herbs three weeks ago. With the semester’s beginning I’ve become consumed with work, a great much of it stuff about which I care very little.
Most seems like busywork. I’ve not written fiction at all since august. I’ve not published anything new.
All terribly bleak and maudlin, I assure you.
I’m to have several teeth yanked from my skull next week. How that relates to this at hand is as such:
suggested, guaranteed, even demanded down time;
opioids, or their neural antagonists;
a break from work at a time when nothing further would be due.
The semester is hitting one of those artificial lulls like the eye of particularly destructive, if brief, storm.
All calm before the final fury blows out the ultimate demands.
I can happily pretend that quiet patch is permanent, and merely enjoy my chemical vacation.
I’m quite productive on opiates. I tend to clean the house and do all the small, odd jobs I’d meant to do for months and weeks prior but never felt the urge to overcome my entropy to complete.
The bleakest and even less bleak merely bleaker thoughts disappear.
As such, I anticipate a boon of productivity.
Counting unhatched eggs prior to their handiness merely reminds me of my plan for eventual chickens.
Upcoming: A post in the form of a to do list and an explanation of my plans for winter.