autopilot strokes

Lately it's been just - quiet.

I'm okay with that, I think; we've gotten past the rumble and bluster of dragon*con and birthday season, and suddenly here we are staring another set of holidays square in the face. The trees turn slower here than they do in Colorado; the deciduous trees of north Alabama are just now starting to color, and are nowhere near the yellow blaze of aspen that decorated every Colorado street corner in September.

I got back up, up out of bed, to write because I'd been feeling a nagging guilt over my recent disinclination to write here; mostly, I think, I'm looking for something new and different to happen, a story untold, observations worth sharing.

Lately it's been just - quiet.

The two-a-day workouts require a regimentation of life that I didn't really anticipate when I began them. As a result, I find myself with a new experience: a noticeable lack of blood sugar crashes. To sustain these workouts, I have to eat frequently, regularly, and healthily; I don't have a choice.

I've discovered that I can fit in a lot of introspection while swimming forty-five minutes' worth of laps. The autopilot strokes mean I can stare straight ahead and let my mind work out whatever it needs to work out. By the time I finish the laps, do my aquatic stretching routine, scrub the chlorine out of my hair and get back on my way, I'm just calm again.

It's great for my mood; lousy for my writing output. Occasionally, those with little to say actually manage to say nothing.

* * * * *

I made a blazing-fast run to Atlanta Sunday afternoon, with the intention of swooping through the city on Monday to accomplish a lot of chores. I managed well. I've learned how to cause a lot of focused damage at a thrift store; I spent around $80 and came home with four dresses, three pair of jeans, around ten skirts, and around six blouses.

I added three more well-constructed silk shirts to my collection. I forget sometimes how much I adore the feel of that fabric against my skin, and I'm happy to indulge my love if I'm only spending two or three dollars per shirt.

I'm still disturbed by one piece of clothing I saw for sale: a floor-length, flared, neon blue leather skirt. Yes, go back and read that description again. That appalling monstrosity was $4, and I actually considered picking it up because I knew that most of you would have trouble believing that such a truly horrid piece of clothing actually exists.

I bought an extra silk shirt instead. Seemed like a wiser use of my money.

Now I just need to find time to unstaple the thrift-store tags, machine-wash the washable items, and take the other items to the dry-cleaner's.

Life's just like that sometimes.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, as the weather grows more chill, the cats are showing greater propensity for snuggling. When I got up from my Val McDermid novel to write, both of the boys (whose nicknames, today, are "Fat" and "Sassy" respectively) registered their impatience and frustration with rolling kittychirrups.

"But, Mom! We were warm!"

They are sprawled out on the bed, awaiting my return. I'll slip under the covers and they, too, will resume what they believe are their rightful places: Tenzing curled up in the warm hollow between my knees and Edmund stretched out lengthwise against my side.

Any movement on my part provokes sleepy, purring protest on theirs.

They can smell the chlorine on my skin and hair. They don't much know what to think of it, but they're learning to adjust.

That's all.


Hey, which store did you see that blue skirt at? I think I want it! :D