Sigh. It's true. Thanksgiving, that somehow quintessential American holiday (toast a fiction, stuff yourself with plenty, drink a bunch) is now digesting. Much like various projects which remain so fictional that they don't even exist. Ups and downs, fallow periods and rich, bugger all. It's a queer space I'm in: little in the way of output, much in the way of slack. I'm rather tired of being my own worst nagger, so I'm just trying to relax with it and stop feeling like I'm going to die next week and thus have only a few days to produce every awesome idea I've ever had. This effort is meeting with mixed success.
On the other hand, the dinner I made (and I did make it, in its entirety, all the main bits and the sides up to and including the whipped cream) was fab and smashing and done just right, with the requisite huge pile of leftovers remaining for noshing on over the next few days.
So I've got that going for me.
On the other hand, the dinner I made (and I did make it, in its entirety, all the main bits and the sides up to and including the whipped cream) was fab and smashing and done just right, with the requisite huge pile of leftovers remaining for noshing on over the next few days.
So I've got that going for me.
So hard, sometimes, to let oneself just BE...