The Quotidian Round

Why am I fond of Latinate locutions? I haven't written long enough, or simply enough. As long as I write something, somewhere, about anything at any time of day . . .
So what is this quotidian round, this day-to-day living which tends to wear me out? What are the essentials I have to take care of? Sleeping well, eating healthily, keeping clean, wearing clothes appropriate for the weather and wearing a good pair of comfortable shoes for the journey . . . sharp pencils, ink filled pens and clean paper, and reading which may spark ideas in my mind's eye . . . to be still.

I'm still here

"Procrastination . . . the thief of Time . . . " I'm not at home at the moment and of course as soon as I try write here all the ideas for themes, topics and trivia that I have not made note of are gone from my mind.

I have been browsing, and marking to follow, many blogs and I feel such an utter inchoate novice, if that isn't a tautology, with my little effort here which has no focus; and which I have left far too long. We are each the centre of the universe. I imagine myself as a signpost in a vast desert; the many arms of the signpost point to the horizon, to the sky, to my feet. Some of these blogs I follow publicly giving you the chance to explore them through the links in my profile . . .

Much time has been used playing country dance tunes on the dulcimer. Some time was rescued taking pictures of wildflowers; a project much mulled over for several years.

Any idiot can face a crisis.

It's this day-to-day living that wears you out. (Anton Chekov) Which is why I haven't been here lately to focus on what I am seeking. I have been dreaming. I have been bemoaning the heat. I have been watching gathering clouds each afternoon; wishing for more than a sprinkle; hoping we won't be deluged. I sleep, eat; stare at a computer screen wondering where the Muses hide . . . I talk to my sister on the 'phone; I raise my voice above the hum of fans, air-conditioner and humidifier to talk to Kathy across the room. I watch a little TV and finish reading A Plague of Doves; I continue dipping into Sailing Home; re-reading Blue Highways. I play a little music on the dulcimer and recorders; I listen to selected programmes on BBC Radio4 . . . I write very brief journal notes in the morning. I browse others' blogs. I receive a letter from a dear friend . . . he plans to visit this fall. I think of the things I am not going to mention here . . . I wait in hope of customers at the bookstore . . .

I read the Declaration of Independence once again and think of Thomas Paine sitting on my bookshelves . . . spent the Fourth in the mountains near Silver City, New Mexico . . .