Time changes always throw me a little out of whack, like living in a false reality, in a parallel universe, under an assumed name, in the witness protection program, with a new dog and a compact car. I have a job refilling vending machines, just making enough to keep food on the table.
Living in Portland now.
Lost an hour over night and now we are back on the best time. I love the longer days, the later nightfalls. Maybe I could start getting up with the sun and making better use of may time. I have lots of it, and not much left.
I’m idle and passive and aware.
Life is too easy. And I’m too easy-going, easily satisfied.
You have to be careful what you wish for. You have to be careful about what you think about. You have to be careful about who you pretend to be. Vonnegut warned about that.
So I finished one book and started another. I used to like switching between books. In the olden days, I’d often I’d have two on the go at the same time. Now I find it hard to start another book right after finishing one. Like switching between punk inspired pop from the 80’s to JS Bach, it’s like living in a house where every room is painted a different colour. It’s jarring.
I’m writing at the end of the day, instead of the beginning. I had lunch at 3pm. Crawled out of bed at 11, which was really 10, but I’d forgotten at the time and scolded myself for such slouchiness, laziness, such sloth.