April, June and November. June is a special month for me, heralded by the birth of the beautiful Possum. It is the first delicious month of Winter when the skies are painfully blue and the air stretched and thin. It is the start of two doonas on the bed and the true apreciation of warmth when everything else is cold. I planned to celebrate June with a NaBloPoMo or at least following Averil's usurped 30 day photo meme, but Telstra thwarted my plans by "accidentally" unplugging us at the exchange, leaving me more free time than I realised, to read 2 books in 3 days.
It is surreal now to be siting here, curled up on a criminally beautiful day snuggled into my hooded grey cardigan with bare legs kissed cool by the gentle breeze and not be at work. I have not had a weekend at home in a month and there is something so incredibly lovely about just being at home. Being lazy, and writing or reading in bed. We have friends coming over later, and there will be drinks on the back deck as the sun comes down and heats up the verandah. We're making risotto for dinner and the girls will have a play mate for a few hours while we sit around and chat, the first time in months thanks to work schedules adn illness.
By my bed at the moment is a shelf of near to toppling books that is calling me to read, and I wish I had a month of sloth to read them all. I am steadily churning through them, but I miss that wonderful indulgence of lying in bed and finishing a whole book in one setting, of never having use for a bookmark and occasionally finishing at 2am blissfully sated from a well crafted story. It's always at 2am that I reconsider my career path and wonder at why I don't try writing instead, forgetful that even writing a blog takes more discipline than I have and that I frequently forget mid sentence where a paragraph was heading. But at 2am all things are possible.
I am now considering filling in the blog posts that should have started from the first, but am fighting off an overwhelming procrastinatory laziness at the same time. I have so many things to say but just can't find the words to say them at present. I am quieter, more introspective again, but also jumpy, and it's the jumpiness that makes it impossible to just sit. To just think of what I'm trying to say, and instead tempts me to flick through 3 other open Firefox tabs (of 12) or to update a message on MSN. Or to check a forum. It makes me feel scatty, and I hate feeling like pieces of me are strewn all over like careless discarded litter. I want to feel whole again.