(Photo stolen from Jordan_K on Flickr)
I have at least three posts in the works at various stages of done . . . done . . . done-itude, yet for each there is a reason I can't post it yet. Drat. Curses, foiled again. See? See how upset I am? See how emotional?
I can't say I'm in a depression, really, but I definitely have the blues. I'm fine, the kids and Chas are fine . . . and yet . . .
This week, this glorious history-making week, carrying us all along on a cloud of good will and (probably) Pollyanna-ish optimism -- this week I heard five pieces of bad news within 24 hours, from very bad to tragic. None of them directly affects me, yet taken collectively they have sapped my creative energy and cast a pall over my exuberance. Suddenly I'm sad.
Please don't feel sorry for me because nothing happened to me. I'm just having a hard time adjusting. If I am going to be really honest about it, it's been since October, when the first waves of Bad News Having Little To Do Specifically With Laurie hit my shore. My housework -- never my strong suit -- has suffered. I stopped reading the blogs of writers and friends I adore, and I'm having a hard time concentrating for long. That opera review took me THREE DAYS to write, and it was pretty terrible.
Also, don't worry about me; I'll snap out of it -- maybe even tomorrow. Sometimes just saying the words aloud or writing them for all the world to see can turn the tide. I hope so, because there's nothing quite as dull as Foolery in a funk.
So bear with me, and ignore me when I make no sense . . . no, wait, that would be most of the time . . . how about, ignore me if I begin to drool? No, that too, would be quite a lot of the time . . . just come over, help yourself to whatever's in the fridge, throw another log on the fire, move a cat off a chair, and make yourselves at home. I'll be out in a minute and full of piss and vinegar again real soon.
Thanks you guys -- I feel better already,