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Mar. 29th, 2009 03:14 pmMy beautifully zoned existence is just not working that way this year. Today, it appears, is editing day. I was so sure I was still in teaching zone. In fact, I am. I can't tell myself that my writing needs focus or my teaching needs my writing energy or that editing works separately, because my fictions to myself have all been exposed: I can do everything on the same day if I push hard enough.
I'm like a toddler who prefers all his/her food separated on a plate and that the peas should never ever touch the potatoes. Part of this is because of the health, of course. It's hard to eat peas and potatoes at once if you are low on vital energy. Things have been so full-on recently, however that my toddler-self has grown up a little, and discovered the adult dinner plate won't actually kill me.
This diminishing of the Macrobian nature of my inner universe (where all the climate zones are different, my peas and potatoes don't mix and my writing and editing and teaching are beautifully demarcated and I can describe it all with the utmost precision and pretension) is my own private form of climate change. Instead of teaching then writing then editing, I get to do all at once.
I am also full of hot flushes, so that climate change is damp and sultry. This is where the brainfog comes from - the joys of hitting a certain time of life when the economy is fickle and the writing starts being wanted.
I have to admit, life isn't boring. Occasionally obscure, but never boring.
I'm thinking of using the brainfog to give oracular readings. Then I can teach about how stupid it is to do this and also write a character who is an oracle. All on the same day. That should kill my theory of nicely zoned years for sure!
I'm like a toddler who prefers all his/her food separated on a plate and that the peas should never ever touch the potatoes. Part of this is because of the health, of course. It's hard to eat peas and potatoes at once if you are low on vital energy. Things have been so full-on recently, however that my toddler-self has grown up a little, and discovered the adult dinner plate won't actually kill me.
This diminishing of the Macrobian nature of my inner universe (where all the climate zones are different, my peas and potatoes don't mix and my writing and editing and teaching are beautifully demarcated and I can describe it all with the utmost precision and pretension) is my own private form of climate change. Instead of teaching then writing then editing, I get to do all at once.
I am also full of hot flushes, so that climate change is damp and sultry. This is where the brainfog comes from - the joys of hitting a certain time of life when the economy is fickle and the writing starts being wanted.
I have to admit, life isn't boring. Occasionally obscure, but never boring.
I'm thinking of using the brainfog to give oracular readings. Then I can teach about how stupid it is to do this and also write a character who is an oracle. All on the same day. That should kill my theory of nicely zoned years for sure!