Eh, beedoobeedoobeedoo. That’s all.
So, there are a few things going on. First and foremost, I am exhausted. Spent most of the day at the cottage raking up leaves (approx., shit-ton) and then dragging sackfuls of them over to a compost heap. For an idea of how many leaves there were, please see exhibit… er… this.
Here be leaves and sticks and things.
On top of that, as a little warm-down, there was a few willow branches that needed sawing off, so my arm was nice and healthily numb by the time it started to get dark. Tomorrow I’m off to visit Abigail for the weekend, but there is the very real concern of my joints solidifying again whilst on the train journey there.
In other news…
The thought of Coming Home was, at one point, rather daunting. The student in his final year did not relish the inevitable entry to the ‘real world’, and favoured even less the impending shifts in his rather comfortable life. They are as follows: get a job; pay off the overdraft; pay back the parents; save; move out; and continue to deal with the ever-increasing influx of ‘grown-up’ decisions. My liberty, it was assumed, was about to be apprehended. Graduation day arrived, and, with appropriate ceremonial confusion, passed. This entry is partially a re-entry into the habit of writing (which is a fancy way of saying ‘practise’), and partially something self-exploratory (for I intend to pose to myself the question, ‘so, what the fuck am I doing?’).
So. What the fuck am I doing?