I've been talking about having an evolving fiction writing practice. Someone brings it up, usually me, and I say, “It's evolving.”
Um, what does that mean? I think what I meant was that something magical would magically happen and that my writing would magically become transcendent, and rock the very foundations of my world.
Please snort, if you just read that, because even I know how (… searching for the right word … impossible? Overreaching? Grandiose – oh, etc. ) that is.
Maybe, though, I'm not a fiction writer.
Maybe blog writing (can't bring myself to write that new verb that sprang from the word blog) is my meditative, non-transcendent, but honest to goodness evolving practice.
In other media, I have been having a paint binge. It is SO GOOD not to spend all day every day driving to Boston.
Instead, I spend the morning getting up late, getting Emile to school, meditating (as per the instructions of my wonderful teacher, Sokuzan Bob Brown) and then its a seriously unhinged paint binge.
Everything is wonky. It's like the floor fell out from under me, and I'm frantically scrabbling at the walls, with paint.
Also, cats may seem like they don't move much, but they do. Every few minutes.