Today, I made myself work.
It felt good.

I decorated the foyer. I created a new entry for the "wall of shame." (Otherwise known as the place where I put pictures of my friends.) I set up the grow light on the catnip plant, and dug out lots of packed knickknacks to use in decorating the living room.

I hung a print in the computer room, and re-hung the Rita Loyd print that had been hanging (in limbo, I guess) in the guest bedroom until I had a better place for it. I also hung the other lighthouse print in the reading room.

As I grow older, I find that I prize my time alone more and more. Thus, here I sit at six a.m., tapping away at a keyboard. The computer room door: open just a crack. One of my curious cats could use an inquisitive front paw and a quick headbutt to open the door if they really wanted to, but this way Jeff won't be disturbed by the light coming from this room.

Hard to believe that I'm leaving for vacation in eleven days. I guess I should get busy, no? I told Andy that I'm sure he wishes that he could send a snapshot of me now back to the person I was a year ago. I was so miserable at the time that when he said, "I promise that things will get better," I made him write it out on a post-it note and sign it for proof.

I kept that post-it note in my wallet for a while. By November or so I knew that I'd have to bail out of my job sometime in the very near future or risk an emotional breakdown of some kind; unfortunately I lost the piece of paper before I had a chance to scan it and do something goofy with it.

He was right. Things got better. Jeff's having a better semester, so I actually get to see him and talk to him. I changed jobs, which eliminated about 90% of the stress in my life. Through changing jobs I met several new friends, which have had an enormous effect on my personal life.

Today I admitted defeat. I came in early—at 8:30—and left many many hours early—around 11:00 by my count. I was exhausted, bleary, and feeling worse by the hour. So I took my work with me and went home.

I stopped by the grocery store on the way home and bought a few sundries (milk, munchies, something for dinner tomorrow).

I petted the cats, settled down to work at the computer for a little while after eating some food, and then realized that my exhaustion wasn't going to go away if I didn't rest. So I decided to take a nap—and woke up three hours later.I probably could have gone back to sleep. It was difficult to wake up. I remember opening my eyes and trying to fight my way out of what felt like a thick fog. I don't know how long it took for me to actually wake up, but it was quite a while. It helped that the cats were swirling around me and meowing.

I'm not sure if I woke the cats up, or vice versa. They crawled in bed with me about thirty minutes ago, all quivering inquisitive (cold, wet!) noses and rusty purrs. Nothing like twenty pounds of kitty coming to rest on your stomach.

(My bladder said hello.)

I started thinking about tonight's wreck and it really does have me rattled. I think that's just my way of dealing with things; a short-term high level of shock, followed by sheer and utter competence. I'll be fine when daylight comes. But the light of reality is harshest at two a.m., when there's no one to talk to and nothing to take your mind off of the events of the day.I suppose I was snoring in bed; I woke up and Jeff wasn't there. I wish he'd been there. (I write this in the full knowledge that he'll see this sometime tomorrow. Sorry, hon, but it's true.)

on music…
While headed out for lunch today, an old comment that I read once popped into my head unbidden. I remember reading some music critic discussing the differences [s]he perceived between Mozart and Beethoven. (At least, I think it was Beethoven.) The description of the difference: while Beethoven's work sounds carefully composed and constructed, Mozart's work had an aura of uncreation—almost as if he had just found the music whole and entire, and done nothing except write it down.