I have a promiscuous muse. My muse wants to own every color, work in many media, and in numerous genre. (Mary Klotz)

And hooray for the swing of the pendulum, though broody does hold such a special place in my heart.  I’m sure I’ll see it again soon.  No sense mourning the  lack of mourning.  hmpf.  And I suppose it is a more pleasant feeling, but it is not so different from last week’s rage-y-ness.  Crazy is crazy is crazy.  Y’know?

My current task is no longer to prevent falling apart crying in public, but to stop myself from hugging everyone I see.  It’s a little ridiculous.  I mean, where is the balance?  Could we please just find a comfortable little monotonous feeling, maybe?  (Or, not.  That would be boring.) 

Also, I’m having to really work today at focusing on mundane tasks.  The voices that are singing melodies and telling me about the scenes I missed, and the images that are poised and ready for paper are all bouncing off of the walls and into one another.  I tell them to wait, but they scoff at the dishes and interrupt picture books and serenade diaper changes.  And then, when I finally sit down at the piano, for example, they are nowhere to be seen (heard).  So I love them, but I sort of hate them, too.

In this state I’ve thought up a few really cheesy ideas.  There is one, in particular, related to this gushy omnibenevolence. I’m trying to keep it under wraps, because it sort of makes me cringe, the cheesiness.  But I’m afraid I might burst soon.  So, you know.  Fair warning.

Oh, and P. S., my tube socks have arrived.  Hello.