Hectic days at work, which is a very good thing. it wasn’t too long ago that it was too quiet and that makes people start to wonder what the tall guy in the corner is doing with all his time, really?
But it’s hectic nonetheless and there’s a lot of energy there in addition to the normal running around and taking care of the kids and so on. Even so, I found myself nodding off when I sat down to write earlier this week. Used to be that midnight was when things really started rolling for me and I could handle late nights, working until two or three in the morning.
But I’m afraid those days are gone. It might be age catching up with me at last, or maybe the late night riots and sleep deprivation a few years ago burnt out those circuits for good. Or maybe I just have better reasons to relax and sleep now.
Whatever the cause, I’ve had to reset things a bit in order to make better use of my time. Sitting down to write at nine-thirty or ten is a bit of an adjustment, but it’s proven fruitful over the past few evenings. I won’t say the writing is any good, but I’m at least staying awake for it. So that’s something.
And tonight I get to write one of my favorite stories, how the Queen met her husband. That’s a really good one. Here’s hoping I do it justice.
In other news, I’ve always loved Jan Svankmeyer’s Alice and I can’t stop thinking about these things and how much I’d like to have a big house with lots of little rooms and staircases and corners and bookshelves and alcoves for them to lurk in (along with all the other oddments, action figures, and strangeness I’ve accumulated over the years.
(Which may mean, I just realized, that I more or less want to live in the house from Poe’s The Masque of the Red Death. It could be worse, I suppose. It could be one of Lovecraft’s houses. Brrr.)
And speaking of oddments, I recently found a note I’d written at some point or another. It was on a single notecard (the kind I use for writing notes, ideas, vague concepts that I don’t want to forget) and all I had written down was this: “Something for Ted.”
But, of course, I have no idea when I wrote it, why I wrote it, or what it means.
So here’s something for Ted, whoever you are, with apologies…
I don’t know who you are,
how I got your name,
why I wrote it down,
or what I was supposed to do for you.
I’m sure I must have known,
I must have had a good reason
for writing down your name
on this scrap of paper.
Why else would I have written it down?
But if there was a reason,
it’s lost to me now.
I’m sure you
must be important somehow.
Aren’t we all, after all,
deserving of more existence
than a hastily scrawled note
in a universe of scraps?
I see God
cleaning out His wallet
some Sunday afternoon
when He should be taking a nap,
wondering “Now who is Ted again,
and what was I supposed to do for him?”
Come to think of it,
I don’t know if you are
all that important.
You’ve been forgotten, after all.
I’ve even thrown the original note away.
So, apart from this
slightly more substantial scrap,
you don’t even exist anymore.
At least, not for me.
And, in time, I expect
I’ll even forget
why I wrote this for you
at all.