The Contingency Plan

Saturday, April 25, 2009

The lack of frequency between recent posts makes it hard to connect stories when I go to write another. I can't seem to find the string. I know it's my own fault.

So it's 6.30pm on a Saturday night and Wolf and I are cuddled up on our couch. We've been here all day, breaking up time with meals and drinks and all of the other necessities. I would normally say the light's been wasted, but we've shared a blanket, many cute little kisses and some serious conversations on everything from transformers to hair (he thinks I should wear mine straight instead of freeing my natural curls). He's drawn in his diary while I've scribbled in mine, I've taught him how to form the number five... and all of this seems so comfortably golden. Why would we want to do anything else?

And yet I feel guilty. I'm struggling with housework motivation. I literally have around 10 loads of laundry to clean and the house is messy. I know it wouldn't take long if I got into the zone, but that's the thing, I'd rather think.

I've been entertaining my mind with the most enjoyable things lately (well, at least enjoyable to me)... like reading about Japanese cell phone novels, bidding on vintage bow ties (feel like dressing like a man), searching for antique bird cages I want to fill with vines and beautifully bursting flowers and then there's music... it sounds so much better with good headphones on.

There's a lot I can and want to write about... soon. Like the fact that I had my first Family Court session on Wednesday after Luc made efforts to bypass my wishes concerning Wolf living here in Sydney... And a recent desire I have to create something instead of always PRing something. And the way I seem to have a twitter-esque expiry time for dates - 140 hours or less. Thanks.

But I don't want to delve into all of that for now. No. I should delve into my other dirty laundry - the literal kind. Once I've checked how my bids are going. And have finished reading that article.

posted by kazumi at 6:32 pm