Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.
eliade

attack of the giant leeches

With the more or less intensive working out I'm doing this summer, I'd hoped a new clarity of mind would develop as a kind of side-benefit, which would let me be more productive with my writing. That hasn't quite happened yet. My trainer said that as you lose weight, toxins are released through your bloodstream and you can actually feel kind of crappy now and then. I've noticed. And like today I'm sometimes struck with a draining sense of tiredness as if a giant leech had attached itself to my brain-stem and was sucking all the energy from my body. But last week was a great week, so I'm hoping I'll catch the upswing of the cycle again this week.

I should go work out. When in doubt, go work out. Hmm. I think I just invented a mantra or at least a truism. I also want to write. I may be too tired to concentrate to write, and given recent experience, working out first may not solve that by giving me an energy boost--I might just end up crashed on the couch in recovery for the rest of the evening instead. Meanwhile, I lightly brood.

Yesterday I went to the symphony as mentioned with friends and it was pretty cool, though as the second half entered full swing with all the Italian singing, I wished I hadn't stashed my program under the seat. I wanted to follow along and translate the words, but dredging up my program would have required an acrobatic floorward lunge that didn't seem appropriate. Still, it was neat, and I'm thinking about seeing more shows and maybe even getting a season ticket. Afterward, we went out to eat and to the movies, and I saw Spiderman 2 for the third time, because like so many others, I am a sucker trapped in the busily crunching jaws of the Hollywood machine.

kjv31 and anaxila gave me a recommendation for a car trip around the Olympic Peninsula, which I think I'm going to follow up on. After my last day at work, a month ago, I set out to drive the Cascade Loop--I overshot to Spokane, where I briefly stayed before getting back on track. Coming out through the farming plains along Highway 2, my car was often the only thing moving as far as the eye could see. Coming back, the mountains were full of snow, and again, on stretches of highway through the National Forest--Okanogan, maybe, or Wenatchee--I was the only car on the road for glacial eras of time, winding slowly through the trees under an overcast sky, musing on fate and engine failure.

These notes are a time-killing kind of randomness. Or maybe just time-wounding. Except you don't get time back, do you. So I guess time spent is time dead. I pause for a moment here to see if there's a profound thought lurking there somewhere, but there's not.

I blink sleepily, I go.
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