Friday, August 27, 2004

The desire to write is running in circles in my head like three notes from a snatch of a song from a car driving by that I know I recognize but can't quite place. And it's not like nothing's happening, either. More the opposite, really, with work putting interesting problems in front of me and Christie and I loving each other and weekends (remember weekends?) spent visiting friends and family and having fun with desperate end-of-summer abandon.

I know I'm taking too much on by the pain behind my eyes and the little collapse against the door I do when I first come home, but what to drop? And how can I drop anything when my body butts in with a migraine every. single. night. this. week?

I've long since grown comfortable with the fact that there is no answer to this question. And besides, there's a three day weekend coming up, and the week after that, a business trip to Manhattan, with long, silent plane rides, and the crazy, speedy shock of the city that always whacks me upside the head and knocks loose the crufty nonsense that has my ass dragging.

Meantime, though, there's yet another conference call, followed shortly by a weekend in the woods with friends.

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