Maudlin Monday

I’m at the precipice again, and I don’t remember seeing any signs.

It’s more than just my crippled frame or lax schedule.  I feel as though I’ve been playing war games in my head and that I’m running out of possibly scenarios, all those already tried resulting in death.

I won’t dwell on it.  I’ll try to take the long way around the lip of the crevasse.  I promised a friend I was trying to feel better.  Wallowing in morbidity isn’t much of a try.

The geese are back and we’ve taken to feeding them.  Our hope is to turn the scavenger marauders into respectable members of the neighborhood.  We’re hoping to socialize them into guard geese.  Regardless of the plan’s effectiveness, I do get to picture a panel from Gaiman’s Sandman in which Death and Dream feed the birds.  I always enjoy how much more of a mope Dream is than Death.

No jobs today.  No letters of acceptance or rejection.  Given my foot, there might be no kung fu.  Too much nothing today.

This morning, I heard Rock Doves for the first time this year, it’s a sound I had forgotten about, something I hadn’t realized I had so deeply missed.  Its effect was almost narcotic.  Evocative of my entire childhood as if the whole of it were kaleidoscoped into a single, flat experience.

I don’t like being reminded of the past as it necessitates the passage of time, and thus reminds of the future and the final resolution of all things, save ideas and fiction.

I wish spring would come.  I’m less morose when surrounded by greenery.

I should be editing LiaGH, but I haven’t done more than open it in the last two months.  The other story, another novel, interests me more.  I haven’t decided whether to fight the urge in order to obey a personal order, to attempt to enforce some sort of schedule, or whether it’s better to work on the piece that interests me.  I suppose it doesn’t matter so long as I’m working.

I just have to make sure I work.