By now I live in a different timezone to the rest of the house. I get up early to walk before I sign in to work, when it’s cool and quiet and less people are about. Quite often I walk past a field with some horses in, and stop by the gate to say hello. Once in a while one or other of them will wander over and stand with me a while, and that’s nice. I like horses’ company, when they aren’t trying to bite me.
When I’ve finished work, I skulk around upstairs out of the way, or run errands. Sometimes around four I fall asleep. My own work I can barely be bothered with, and so notes are started and abandoned, pictures unsorted and untaken; all creative activity pared down to making myself sit on the floor for half an hour and literally do cutting and sticking , or even just laying out pieces of paper in aimless patterns.
Today I have worked on a painting for the first time in a couple of weeks, although I sulked the whole time and ended up spending a long while using a small amount of paint to very little effect. As painting sessions go, it was largely symbolic. I suspect this bout of writing maybe something similar.