If only there were some proper way to explain my bloggerly absence. Sadly, since the last entry, I've done little except work, break from writing, occasionally party, and go to Michigan's gorgeous Straits of Mackinac for a few days. Events carry on nevertheless. My house is now a bustling hive of activity with all rooms filled, some quite agreeably. In contrast, my workplace just hemorrhaged several people I knew and/or befriended, and though it's been easier getting used to the place without them than I thought, many are still missed. At present, I'm home sick, and it'd be pretty silly to let the day go by without blogging about something, even if it's about the fact that I haven't blogged in months (see precedents above, I forget where).

It seems as if every time I shred a pile of books, another one appears. Cashing in a windfall of credit at Dawn Treader, I hooked myself up with ten or so classics, including Wuthering Heights and Flaubert's A Sentimental Education (the former I've been meaning to reread, the latter will be entirely new). A couple, A Confederacy of Dunces and Robertson Davies' High Spirits, are longtime favorites I somehow didn't have at the time. I have a novel and three short stories to finish before the end of the year (halfway done with the former), I want to keep up with the reading, cook a proper meal once a week, and at some point I mean to learn the rudiments of the guitar (it's not what you think). 

Eight years ago, I would have killed to have such a set of tasks before me. Today, whenever I feel things seem too overwhelming, all I have to is remember those cold, sometimes lonely days. I keep worrying sometimes about the inevitable decline, and feel that this helps to feed my determination to do all the aforementioned right. It'll hopefully help me, too, to have something to write about on the blog other than some kind of long-winded existential statement to the fact that I'm still alive.

Uh... Happy Equinox (in a few days)!