Distractions...distractions...distractions

I finally settled in today and got working. I was telling a friend last night that I hauled all these boxes of tapes that need transcribing and piles of old newspaper clippings and various sundry archives up here with me, because I need time away from my life. I need the quiet to put it all together in a cogent flow. I have all the ingredients, I said, now I just need to set about baking the damn cake already.

He asked how much I'd gotten done so far. When I hesitated he said "Yeah, that's what I thought." I confessed that I did dance around the table piled high with stuff then decided to settle into the comfy couch, light a fire and leaf through a book I pulled off the fireplace mantle, "Tuesdays with Morrie." I was curious about it because it's recently come out as a stage play and my theater is considering producing it next season so I paged through it. I ended up getting hooked on it and reading the whole damn thing, pausing only for a fast trip into town for wine and cheese and a small aged salami, which I had for dinner. I drank way too much wine (which is exactly two glasses), at which point all my inhibitions go right down the dumper, I feel great about the awesome wonder of being alive and the stupendous incredible oneness I feel with the universe for exactly about ten minutes before I disintegrate into mayor of asshole-ville. Which means after an hour of staring at the fire and ruminating about every regret I have ever harbored, I got all weepy and sat on the porch and smoked cigarettes and called up my old friend and boo-hoo'ed about how old and decayed I suddenly feel. Oh for chrissake, someone please come up to this here mountaintop with a shotgun and just shoot me already.

This morning I threw all the windows and doors open, cleaned up the cabin, took a long hot shower and faced my procrastinating self in the mirror. I sat and wrote. And cut and wrote and cut and made notes and actually got some work done. The only distractions I am allowing myself today are the woodpeckers and the chickadees. The hound dog next door came by for a bit of flirting with Miss Daisy and she has been hanging out on the back porch ever since he abruptly lopped off into the woods, no doubt pining and hoping he'll be back soon.

There's a lady who hikes every day along the trail at the top of the mountain and she sings as she hikes, very badly, in a high-pitched tuneless church-lady vibrato. From where I sit at the dining room table, I can see a flash of her white clothing as her song drifts down the side of the mountain. I squint but I cannot make her out and I strain for a moment to try and discern what it is she is singing but then I decided it doesn't matter. Back to work.