Morning

sandwichboy woke me up this morning with contributor's copies. The Summer 2004 On Spec apparently includes Midnights on the Bloor Viaduct (memorable to longtime readers of this journal as Bridge Story). It has good cover art, and I get to share ToC with shiny people like Elaine and Holly and Catherine MacLeod and Laurie Channer, whose last On Spec story blew me on my ass with how good it was. Pretty pretty ToC. I haven't read it through yet, but it's now on the top of the pile.

Today the world is sunny and blue, and the light is filtering down through all the trees outside our window (which I will photograph once I have the new digicam). I don't have to work at Planet Aid until Sunday, and I start at Bakka Books on Tuesday, and I no longer have an English Grammar exam to worry about (because I wrote it last night) or library books to return (because I did that too). All my stuff is in order for Boston. All the stories and poems I have finished are out at markets. There is money in the bank and food in the fridge. For this week, I seem to have a nice absence of long-term goals and places I have to be or else.

It seems like a good day to be domestic: clean the apartment, do the laundry, get socks for the boy and exchange the pair of jeans that are a little too big even though they were labelled with the right size. I never used to think of domestic chores as being anything to especially look forward to, but now it's almost as if having the time to do them means there's nothing else, important or urgent, that's going to suck my attention. And of course, when I do them they involve copious amounts of books and tea. *g*

I'm trying not to think about doing some writing, because I've noticed lately that just stresses me out and makes doing said writing even harder and worse. I can't force ideas to cook. They'll be ready in their own time, and that's going to have to be okay.