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Fallowing

fallowing
Ohara Koson; Reclining Tiger (Ca. 1910s)
" … up to perform my daily writing ritual …"

I am occasionally accused of appearing to be productive. I sincerely apologize for this appearance, but I assure you that the productivity seems to reside in the eye of the beholder. I consider myself a first-class slacker, rarely if ever doing very much of anything, though I might occasionally tag along on some adventure, but almost always strictly as an observer. The recently completed Grand Refurbish serves as just the most recent example of just such a misrepresentation, for I contributed little on that one and feel as though I mostly received credit for effort my hired crew performed. I added a few grace notes but little of any substance.

Still, that said, I also very rarely allow myself a day off.
I write each morning, whatever the day of week or holiday. I maintain my routines, each a tad tedious, but I do try to keep up with my obligations around the house. Once in a blue moon or so, though, I might engage in some Fallowing, a day when I try my best to contribute the absolute minimum to forward progress. Yesterday was one of those days, though I realized as I watched myself relax, that I spent only part of the day kicked back.

There was that snowfall which really demanded that I perform some shoveling and I could not have known that the job would keep me two hours out in the fifteen degree morning. The furnace guy came to service the equipment and needed my help, but that took less than an hour. Also, as I was warming up the vehicles, I managed to ruin a windshield wiper blade on The Schooner, so I was forced to drive across town twice, first to purchase a replacement driving Elizabeth, our Pick-up Truck Lexis, and second to return with the unsuccessfully mounted wiper blade to have the auto supply parts store guy actually install the blade. (I swear that I have never once successfully mounted a replacement windshield wiper blade. They come with instructions that do not instruct. Not even The Muse successfully interpreted this latest.) I was finished with all those preliminaries to Fallowing by lunchtime.

I laid back to listen to an audio book, an almost certain sleep inducer. I napped awhile, waking to find Molly cuddling closer than usual and even purring. I invested a half hour taking advantage of her proximity until she tried to take a hunk out of me in gratitude for the attention. I eventually built a fire and reclined on the floor before it, still listening to my sleep inducing novel. I can almost always manage to intuit the chapters I've missed when napping, though I sometimes have to backtrack and re-listen to a section. Audio books are technology and so seem to need to add to the net frustration in the world, just like replacement windshield wiper blades and such.

The Muse, who had produced almost singlehandedly two recent holiday feasts announced that she would have nothing to do with the preparation of our evening meal. I stepped into that vacuum and produced some poached steelhead and salad which, because it featured Comice pear and Gorgonzola, was a hit. Then I went back to laying on the floor before the roaring fire, still listening to that novel which had finally gotten interesting. I slept through the final half dozen spell-binding chapters there, waking to learn that the woman found innocent of murder was probably a serial killer and her lawyer, remorseful. I felt as though I had been sleeping on plank flooring, which I had been, but felt warm and cozy. I stumbled off to a late bed and allowed myself to sleep in until almost three-thirty this morning before I was up to perform my daily writing ritual after an entire day of Fallowing. I might complete some Authoring today.

©2021 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved







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