This is the season of my discontent and certainly not the most wonderful time of the year.
I am faced with choices I commonly make when restless:
1.) Should I change the color of my hair? Again?
2.) Should I re-arrange all the furniture? Again?
3.) Should I change the html of the blog? Again?
To the first I say nay. I've settled happily upon this Burgundy shade that gives my head a superhero sheen and a demon-like halo.
To the second I say maybe. The physicality of moving furniture all over suits my restless brain. And I may, as I usually do, find things I've lost and missed as well as things I've lost and completely forgotten about.
To the third I say it is a last resort. I'm rather pleased with the looks of the thing but this bout of restlessness is quite a tenacious one.
This is the season of my loving, though that evil genius Procrastination tells me to wait.
Why, oh why fickle fates, does this happen?
A need for change?
Not enough chaos to satisfy the maniacal needs of the muse?
All of the above. The gray gloom of the sky as it drops half-hearted flakes makes me yearn for the time when I spend more than half of my day outside reveling in the feel of dirt on my hands, the sun on my back and an ever changing landscape. Outside, all that changes now is the level of snow or muddy lawn and the number of squirrels looking for peanuts the crows nabbed five minutes after the squirrels so carefully buried them.
And my muse does thrive on chaos. As anal as I am about my desk (and little else), when I really write, paper, CD's, pens, reference books and half-empty coffee mugs cover every spare inch.
To soothe the savage beast that is me, I will move heavy things and, as Oliver Wendell Holmes suggests, take a music bath. The ever wise and very dead Holmes knew that music is to the soul as water to the body and I am in sore need of a cleansing.