A day of smears

I ate a lindt chocolate last night in bed while watching a dvd of Weeds, and I noticed that some of it seemed to have fallen off somewhere. It wasn't until I woke in a revoltingly chocolate smeared bed this morning that I realized um, I guess that was in my white sheets. I was relieved to realize what it actually WAS, let me tell you.

Then I went off for my annual physical. Any day that includes a pap smear before coffee is not likely to rank as Highly Memorable... though dumping half a blender full of vibrantly purple blueberry smoothie across my countertop, floor and into my silverware and random crap drawers was pretty vivid.

So I ended up spending the early afternoon dozing on the couch, with a headache from my mostly unproductive marathon yesterday at the computer, and woke up staring sort of bleakly out at the sky that really... just a smear of white grey. One of my invisible friends the other day declared that everyone she knew who'd moved to Seattle had left within a couple of years because they couldn't deal with the rain and the grey. Those people have clearly not endured a Toronto january. From my window right now, late afternoon, the sky is a uniform white-grey, colour-blurred with the steam from the ugly ventilation shaft directly across the street, the cheap siding on the little rooftop stairwell on that same building, the snow falling limply, depressed and enervated. Just looking at this sky sucks the energy out of me -- whereas the same late afternoon malaise in Portland had hints of light and a certain kind of vibrancy. I guess we experience it all so differently, but I keep sighing involuntarily just looking outside.

So today, not so productive. Yesterday I did have a bit of a breakthrough, coming up with an organizing principle that seems to be working for me -- but it didn't lead to an explosion of writing, which I was sort of hoping for. I peck away. Simultaneously look forward to my plans for dinner tonight with S and her elusive girlfriend I'd begun to think inhabits another dimension -- and feeling guilty for not producing pages and pages and pages of brilliant insightful analysis.

I paste. I paste.