Here's my problem--and it's the kind of problem I'm happy to have, honestly. I have become distracted from my own distractions: this week, I am absorbed enough in my work again that I don't have the cognitive space to practice my piano as thoroughly and consistently as I need to, or to take the big camera out for a spin on a daily basis, or to wander around semi-aimlessly, looking at what there is to be seen. Or to write anything of much substance here, despite my having sworn, two years ago, that I would post daily but would avoid "here's what I did today" recaps of my life. This week, my nose is in my textual theory when I get up, my fingers are at my keyboard after my coffee kicks in, and my bedtime reading stays confined to my bedtime, instead of claiming my morning as well. The proof that I'm working is in my sore and twingeing left elbow, which hates it when I type. The other proof is in the fact that I don't hate the project right now.
I suppose that this is what one calls "feeling better."
Earlier, I did a British Library manuscripts collection search for "hair," just out of curiosity. I could, if I so chose, increase my personal experience with dead creators' hair by no small figure this year. Keats, Shelley, even Beethoven. It is truly incredible.
Tomorrow, fueled by all this intellectual fizz, I will don my black satin evening dress and attend the first of my week's two Burns Night suppers. Last time I wore the dress, my Canadian friend said to me, "That would look great with diamonds." "Yeah," I said, "it would." (I should note, though, that if I ever have $23K to kick around, I hope I'll kick it somewhere more useful than Tiffany's.)