Already the day has gone over mostly to miscellany: meetings, chats, filing forms, supporting petitions. The way here allowed a branch of beauty; the way home will involve handing off a red typewriter. Writing needs to happen and wants to, though I am not yet fully willing it.
I begin to wonder whether I'll ever again offer images of anything but flowers. They loom so large in my field of vision these days, not least because they're all around, shedding floating petals, hiding chattering skittery birds.
* * *
Later in the day: strangely enough, once I sat down with the paper I needed to turn in, I made my peace with what it is and was and sent it off. I want it to be bigger and better than it is--or at least better than it is--but more than thirty years of feeling that way about so many things about myself and my life has pretty much inured me to the less friendly aspects of said desire. Plus, I now get to have a night's sleep before restarting myself.