"Somewhere between motivated and cold."

I haven't really had the words for this in awhile. Still reeling from some things that knocked me out of my senses. But I've written two short stories since the new year, and it is feeling quite natural to lock myself down here with my coffee and my entheogen and my wine and my occasional music, and at the very least stare at the empty whiteboard for hours. I've never been the type to walk away and come back to something later. And as much as its ruined for me, my impatience might be the only thing I really have.

My semester is in full swing. I submitted first in workshop (this is now 5 times in a row) and my piece received, on balance, pretty good opinions. For whatever its worth, someone referred to something as brilliant. Which is one of those words only more narrowly defined than 'interesting', positive though at least. It was really an effort to write something simple. Something surreal and minimalist and yet straight and painful. I think I was successful in at least some of this.

My other class is a Senior Seminar course intended to tidy up after four or five years of college, when you're just looking for a break and don't want to think too much. When you've got parties and parent-financed backpacking trips through Europe to plan, that sort of thing. The theme is food, and the professor has revealed herself as prioritizing food and furniture above all else in literature. Tonight I read recipes from the 18th century. I am supposed to have something to say about them on Thursday. I didn't ask for a break.

To maintain happiness, we're supposed to dedicate our lives to some aim. Not to materials or to individual people. We know that these are fleeting. And yet, in 96ish days, the first person in a long time is going to come down into the lab. And we're going to talk for a while. And I can't wait.