No bananas, no toast, not even a frozen waffle
OMG! What the hell was I thinking of yesterday when I didn't manage to go across the fucking street and get some groceries before night descended???
Now, here it is morning, and dark and rainy and cold out there, and I'm still in my comfy Christmas PJs and my incredibly snuggley black fleece robe (the key -- when you're a gal of my height -- is to wear large-sized men's robes! They are the greatest! So roomy and the sleeves are long enough for my very long arms!). Anyway, nothing at all about this scenario is screaming: "Hey! Go over to the store now and buy some food!"
Grumble, grumble, grumble. (That's me talking. If it were my tummy talking, it would be "rumble, rumble, rumble." Learn the difference! It might come in handy one day!)
Anyway. Yesterday, I stayed mesmerized watching the DVDs of The Singing Detective . The BBC TV series, not the Hollywood movie version (Robert Downey, Jr.). Although, I must say, I really really loved the Hollywood movie version but that was sort of the bite-sized version of the original BBC version of The Singing Detective (with Michael Gambon). And what strikes me most, at my current lofty age, and not to downgrade how awful it must be to suffer from that disease he suffers from in the story (a type of severe & horrifying psoriasis that also causes severe arthritis), I started to see how similar that character's world was to my own and it was kind of, well, creepy.
Being a writer is already such a hopelessly internal existence. You are always observing, watching, crafting, processing. And then add to those qualities, being an introvert, as I am.... Well, jeez. In so many ways, The Singing Detective really is an accurate reflection of how it feels to be trapped inside of "being me."
Stuck behind my eyes (& heart). Always watching, always thinking, always wondering & remembering. Always trying to craft "life as I see it" into a story that makes sense even as it continues to play out in front of me. It never, never stops. I even, of course, do it in my dreams. I guess we all do that part, right?
Well, I guess the whole mood of yesterday -- even though I chatted on the phone with Valerie, a couple times, really. And I did my yoga, I bathed, you know; I fed myself and played with the cats. I wasn't in some paralyzing emotional coma, or anything. But I guess a sort of malaise settled over me that kept me returning to the TV and hitting PLAY and watching more of The Singing Detective. I got sucked into that energy and I just never got out to the store.
Now, here it is morning, and dark and rainy and cold out there, and I'm still in my comfy Christmas PJs and my incredibly snuggley black fleece robe (the key -- when you're a gal of my height -- is to wear large-sized men's robes! They are the greatest! So roomy and the sleeves are long enough for my very long arms!). Anyway, nothing at all about this scenario is screaming: "Hey! Go over to the store now and buy some food!"
Grumble, grumble, grumble. (That's me talking. If it were my tummy talking, it would be "rumble, rumble, rumble." Learn the difference! It might come in handy one day!)
Anyway. Yesterday, I stayed mesmerized watching the DVDs of The Singing Detective . The BBC TV series, not the Hollywood movie version (Robert Downey, Jr.). Although, I must say, I really really loved the Hollywood movie version but that was sort of the bite-sized version of the original BBC version of The Singing Detective (with Michael Gambon). And what strikes me most, at my current lofty age, and not to downgrade how awful it must be to suffer from that disease he suffers from in the story (a type of severe & horrifying psoriasis that also causes severe arthritis), I started to see how similar that character's world was to my own and it was kind of, well, creepy.
Being a writer is already such a hopelessly internal existence. You are always observing, watching, crafting, processing. And then add to those qualities, being an introvert, as I am.... Well, jeez. In so many ways, The Singing Detective really is an accurate reflection of how it feels to be trapped inside of "being me."
Stuck behind my eyes (& heart). Always watching, always thinking, always wondering & remembering. Always trying to craft "life as I see it" into a story that makes sense even as it continues to play out in front of me. It never, never stops. I even, of course, do it in my dreams. I guess we all do that part, right?
Well, I guess the whole mood of yesterday -- even though I chatted on the phone with Valerie, a couple times, really. And I did my yoga, I bathed, you know; I fed myself and played with the cats. I wasn't in some paralyzing emotional coma, or anything. But I guess a sort of malaise settled over me that kept me returning to the TV and hitting PLAY and watching more of The Singing Detective. I got sucked into that energy and I just never got out to the store.
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