Seems I need to step back a little from the spicee that make life worth living. So far the only foods I've eaten that aren't trying to tear a new hole in my stomach are cantaloupe and buttered toast. I did do okay with some cream of mushroom soup, but my quiche was not conducive to a gentle evening. Even tea with milk and honey is being snotty.
Anyway, today was taken up with laundry and packing and trying to plan out what to do if the NYC thing comes through, and none of it really makes me happy. I'd be staying at a hotel by LaGuardia, which is treated like an unwanted cousin by the city. No restaurants. No easy way to get around. It's absurd.
My brain is still twisting and turning in all directions regarding MQM, Same for my pamphlet on book packing. And getting myself to just hunker down and work through them is like asking to win a million bucks in the lottery. Ain't happening...probably because I don't play the lottery.
I'm taking Barbara Tuchman's A Distant Mirror with me to read on the flights. Go into forced solitude. Let everything go chaotic in the back of my head. Remind myself of how horrible mankind has always been to itself.
And will always be...
No comments:
Post a Comment