more than four and twenty, and the sunday streets wet with last night's rain. the days are warm, the nights cool, my house chilly with a heater that refuses to stay on, colder weather coming this week, rain here again now, the skies wet with clouds.
my hands itch to be dirtied with art. my dollhouse start is full of obstacles, my head full of no words, my body no energy, and thoughts are scattered everywhere, birds in the sky looking for a place to land, jittery wings between raindrops, darting in one direction, startled into another. the tv is egypt and trouble and higher gas prices and facebook is don't-eat-this-don't-eat-that-boycott-here-don't-shop-there, and i retreat into bad fiction, unable to move past beginnings, already bogged down with that striving to be perfect thing, fearful of being honest, and using that as an excuse for the not doing.
it is part of it, but not all, and i'm not sure what the other parts are made of, but today it all feels like excuses, not truth. using january dreariness as a reason for not working on my january room seems somehow . . . wrong. lazy. and keeps my hands unhappy, my hands who want to be sploshed with paint and glue, my fingers who want to figure out how to get this wire to do that, and can only figure it out in the doing. but my hands are not in control. they wait.
this almost-over afternoon says to stop here, to stop talking about it, just start the doing from right here, and it is right, of course - rainy afternoons usually know what they are talking about - but i immediately hear myself reply in just a bit. later. soon. there better not be a good movie on tcm. i sigh. i get more ice. i do anything but. i tell myself it really is january dreariness. and maybe it is.