There are just some days when I want all of my time for me. ME. I don't have any charitable feelings available for anyone, no desire to do any sort of mindless work for my classes, nothing. All I have, on days such as this, is the willingness to give in to the call of my own muse. She comes on the wind, ringing the chimes and blasting day old blossoms from the bushes. Most days, I fight her off. Shoo her away with my 'I'll do it laters' and wine drinking and reading of other people's books. I piddle hours away in my garden, artfully clipping vines Mr. Miyagi style and stalking ants. I spend too much time online, giving away travel advice or looking up dirty Latin phrases that keep me giggling for hours. Nerd that I am.Catullus Poems 30-45
Martial Book III .69-76
Today, though, I am in the hidey-hole. Writing up a tornado. Making myself ignore the million other things that natter in my ear, whip at my back, grind away at the peace that comes from sitting and making. Oh no, I won't clean out the closet today. I refuse to feel badly about that one wall that needs some touch-up paint. I am ignoring the bags of potting soil that are creating an eye sore and likely a safe haven for the dump truck sized mouse that has taken up residence in the back yard. Today, fingers of distraction, you are being left to pester someone else.
