I should say that the life cycle of a butterfly is actually a really amazing thing. Boy I sounded grumpy in that earlier post. Guess it wasn't just the kids that day. I like to think I'm immune from bad moods, just riding the wave of the day, up and down, without too many fluctuations ... you know, calm mama, serene mama. With a little bit of creative editing and amnesia, this is true.
But this is also true: I am trying to drink a cup of coffee, while listening to the radio, while CJ climbs my leg, while Fooey shouts from the living-room that it is time for her mommy to read her a book, NOW! While blogging. There was an article somewhere (Globe? Maclean's?) recently about how we are training our brains to lose the ability to concentrate deeply by multi-tasking on our electronic devices. This bodes ill for writers of novels, et cetera. But I still enjoy reading, and would confess to being a ridiculous multi-tasker; though maybe I've dumbed myself down and don't even realize it.
Except this is also true: I can still write a story. I can sit for six or seven hours straight, and focus entirely on an imaginary place and imaginary people, and write a story. And yesterday that task brought me great pleasure because the story was good, and it twisted and turned in ways unanticipated. In the world, and out of the world. A bit of both.
Way too rambling. Turn off the radio, maybe! And go read that Fooey some butterfly books, marvelling at the life cycle of these fragile (seemingly fragile) creatures.
missing london, part one
6 hours ago