The past two weeks have been productive. And I'm proud of that. I haven't quite reached my goal either week, of 12 hours writing + 8 hours cleaning -- but I've gotten close enough. And on top of that, I've done morning pages pretty consistently, and I'm getting into the swing of this new workflow where I'm posting to Planet Sven. All good.
But I still feel the sacrifices. Time is money; you choose to invest it, and then you get what you purchased. You make decisions about what little pieces of your soul to sell. Which sounds sad... But what you're buying is more life, or a sense of pride, or fulfillment of long-held dreams. It's just that everything is a trade-off.
Today I'm missing continuity. Particularly during that Oct - Dec window, one day was blurring into the next -- and I loved it. I neglected my work with the Crisis Line, let the house go to hell, set nary a word to page in service of my YL essaying. But I could initiate holding her hand, and let that one point of contact evolve uninterrupted over the course of days. Continuity.
So much time is wasted reconnecting. You go off to the store while I stay here, and then there's this train of experience that needs to be recounted or ignored. I perhaps had my own little drama while you were away. No big deal, most of the time. But the farther away the mind travels, the harder it is to re-synchronize.
And let me tell you, when I write YL, it can be really difficult to get back to reality. That mindwalk takes me a long way away. I've described coming back as climbing back up a ladder. ...Like how Seattle was rebuilt one story up, and for a while you had to climb up a ladder, cross the street, and then climb back down a ladder to get over to the other side. Climbing back down the ladder is the process of re-syncing.
And touch. I can feel how different my body becomes when I sit in a chair writing for as much as five hours in one day. Think of that as an airplane flight from Portland to New Mexico. [I wonder how long it takes to fly to D.C.? Seems like that ought not be more than about five hours.] Isn't there some way to stay happily in my body while I "be productive"? Bah!
But I still feel the sacrifices. Time is money; you choose to invest it, and then you get what you purchased. You make decisions about what little pieces of your soul to sell. Which sounds sad... But what you're buying is more life, or a sense of pride, or fulfillment of long-held dreams. It's just that everything is a trade-off.
Today I'm missing continuity. Particularly during that Oct - Dec window, one day was blurring into the next -- and I loved it. I neglected my work with the Crisis Line, let the house go to hell, set nary a word to page in service of my YL essaying. But I could initiate holding her hand, and let that one point of contact evolve uninterrupted over the course of days. Continuity.
So much time is wasted reconnecting. You go off to the store while I stay here, and then there's this train of experience that needs to be recounted or ignored. I perhaps had my own little drama while you were away. No big deal, most of the time. But the farther away the mind travels, the harder it is to re-synchronize.
And let me tell you, when I write YL, it can be really difficult to get back to reality. That mindwalk takes me a long way away. I've described coming back as climbing back up a ladder. ...Like how Seattle was rebuilt one story up, and for a while you had to climb up a ladder, cross the street, and then climb back down a ladder to get over to the other side. Climbing back down the ladder is the process of re-syncing.
And touch. I can feel how different my body becomes when I sit in a chair writing for as much as five hours in one day. Think of that as an airplane flight from Portland to New Mexico. [I wonder how long it takes to fly to D.C.? Seems like that ought not be more than about five hours.] Isn't there some way to stay happily in my body while I "be productive"? Bah!
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