Since my friend Annie turned me onto the thirteen month calendar, I have followed it’s system of days. They make more sense to me, and as a practitioner of druidry and hedgecraft, the thirteen lunar moons as opposed to months work a lot better. The only part of that calendar I follow now is how the first day of the week is Friday and not Sunday and certainly not Monday. And Friday always feels like a new beginning.
So… the week is ending for me. There is still a lot that I haven’t completed yet. There’s much I wish I could complete today but the clock and the body says one’s energy is not limitless. I still want to get in a bit of proofreading before the day is done. There’s more I want to do, but it will have to wait until tomorrow.

Proud to say I finished a book today. I read scores of books in a month, but I haven’t read a novel in well over a year. Oh, I’ve listened to them on tape. I like being read to, but I was getting worried that I’d never be able to physically read a story again. The whole time I was reading it I would pull back in amazement that these black marks of ink could be transformed into pictures and a real story. And then the moment I thought about that of course, they were squiggles of black ink again.

I’m yawning now. I’ve been up sense last night. When I look back on some of the more virulent posts I write (and they're not going to get any gentler. I spent years apologizing for having strong opinions and I’m not going to apologize now) I sound like a grumpy old bear. It sounds almost as if I hate my generation. Maybe it sounds that way, I don’t know. But the truth is that I have always taken very seriously the duty to give something to this generation, to the age I was born into. I want to give something, to the people growing up with me. And I want to leave something behind for those who follow. This is the motivation for the things I do. I know that now.