Obscenely busy week. In its way.

Actually, that's only half true. I think at least one day was left solely to dicking around.

No progress has been made on the clutter, and I have failed - failed! - to type up that thing I said might show up... day before yesterday. I am remarkably ashamed of myself, almost as much as I am unmotivated. But if you pile on the unmotivated shame, it I think general pity and self-doubt win the day.

Or as the Randall Nichols status quo is concerned: "God's in his heaven, all's right with the world."

This week has been all about the nut orders - I may have mentioned this before, but my grandmother sells bulk nuts seasonally - peanuts, cashews, mixed nuts, and various other dry goods, your gummy bears, Bridge Mix, granola, lots of other stuff covered in chocolate. The sort of things you might have sold for fund-raising in school, but she actually turns a small profit on it, and has a pretty dedicated clientèle. Dedicated enough that despite claiming each year was her last, she still manages to clear about the same number of orders.

And all told, I don't mind the work. There's something about playing the collection agent and the delivery boy, there's something... I wouldn't call it satisfying, but it's not like other work I've done. It's like the book reviews - it's tolerable, sometimes even enjoyable. Strange, and not how I typically think of work. But I can't hate everything, I guess, right?

I also have a cat, now. A three year old rescue, named Loki. Well, it was just "Ki" but that was because it was the only sound he'd respond to [I'm guessing because of "kitty"], but a one syllable pet name, that just can't stand. He's a long hair, black and gray... a real sweetheart, though a little jittery, as you'd expect for cat who has been uprooted and kept at a vet's around dogs for so long. It's only day four with him, but I think he's settling in well.

It's weird. I have... a part time job [nothing extravagant, or even enough of anything to hold anything in the way of finances up], a cat, a new, amazing woman in my life. Of course, there are other things that can improve, and will. Even though I'd rather not, I'm going to try and pick up driving this fall, and even though I'm not putting a lot of money back, I'm holding at a comfortable place, for the first time in my life. Not "oh god, oh god, I need an operation or I'm gonna die" comfortable, but... ah, I don't worry about it quite like I did. And yeah, I really wish that I could catch up on some of these correspondences that I've fallen so far behind on, and I want to thank everyone who has written, who has been in touch, and who hasn't been able to get a hold of me. I haven't forgotten any of them, and they're all amazing, and writing, talking to them, it makes everything better, but I'm just playing catch up. I wish I had more time, too, to maybe get a little more involved in the Occupy movement - if, for no other reason, than to sit and talk with some of the people, students, ex-students, non-students, workers, citizens, consumers, activists - all thinkers, in their way, in different ways. Missing that bothers me. But all of that stuff, all of that stuff that I feel like I'm missing, or isn't there, I feel like it will be. If it can be. I feel confident in that.

About all that's left is the writing. I just... dammit, I'm just not getting the work out like I want to. And I don't know if it's just because there's been other stuff to do, or if I just haven't had it there. I've worked on stuff, but not every day. The consistency, the regularity, the output... it's just not there right now. I'm just frustrated, and tired. Maybe there's something I'm missing, or maybe I'm still fighting my rut. I don't know.

More's the pressure. That I'm at that age that I'm supposed to be doing everything. Impressing everyone, or at least anyone I can get to look at me. Maybe not success, but inklings, indicators, support systems. I might be inventing all this. Writers hit their strides, become big in their 30s, 40s, 50s mostly. Right? Just seems like all my heroes, were doing... not their best work, but some of their most interesting now, at my age.

I should just, you know, kick into gear, right? Stop bitching, and just do it. There's really no excuse, not even the usual "no inspiration" - I have literally pages of work, handwritten, just needing transcribed, and edited. We're talking outlines, short-stories, complete comic scripts, short scenes... that would be enough to get me working again.

Lighter note. Pictures went up of my kid brother's graduation at Ft. Benning. Occurs to me we never got one with just the two of us. Bummer, about that. But these two, with our mom, they're quite good, and something small gave me a chuckle.

Unseasonably brisk, that day. So, here we are, and then...

We pass dour expressions and slight looks of disgust like most brothers pass footballs. I guess some people would see the switch as a negative, but it made me, strangely enough, happy. It's... remarkably easy to forget our similarities, and there's something about just... having a nice reminder that we may not share fathers, but we still share something.

When it comes to family, it's always complicated. But I hope no one would begrudge me this.


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