(morning writing, reading notes)

I currently have an opportunity to investigate my negative thoughts. Certainly Christine's week of migraines and then deep distress on Sunday was hard, and i wasn't doing the best job shielding myself from her feelings. I'll frame that as showing a general good in our life though. She continues to have more capacity for wobbles and more positive energy day to day. I am not as practiced at the emotional boundary. And, indeed it goes both ways, as my current dip is something she was noticing and having to hold off yesterday.

I did want to visit with my sister for cheer on Tuesday, but the walk along her shady but hilly roads did not facilitate as much of a heart to heart once we were on the return, drenched with sweat. At her home, there was something about her husband T's conversational topic (shopping estate sales) that poked me. I am judgemental about my shopping patterns (too much stuff) and think of my mother's closets of very very similar slacks, and stacks of projects, and huge stash of stale but very expensive spices and seasonings. I am very aware of the positive anticipatory energy of picking out project stuff or outfits or ingredients -- i spent time yesterday going through on sale pens and papers at Amazon Prime but did not pull the trigger, partly because somewhere in the house is a box of beautiful washi tape from a previous Prime sale, and there are boxes of papers, and since moving i have carefully curated pens and pen refills. And it's not like i've used them up yet! Anyhow, there's a tension with messages of indulgence and the self knowledge that certain things aren't really an indulgence. A bunch of pens  seems innocuous, but when they arrive: where do i put them? How do i feel in four months when i see them and haven't used them? Indulgence woudl be remembering to play with the watercolor pencils that i bought a few weeks ago instead of the distraction of looking at pens.

I had tried escaping into a book, but Tuesday night's book was Darwin's Radio by Greg Bear and -- yay! I've imagined  stories about the something triggering some of our latent, ancient genes into expressing proteins that have fascinating outcomes -- the main woman character's life situation, the CDC's political maneuverings, the context of discovery -- all bleeping depressing. Don't need that.

Last night i read a Nathan Lowell book which is somewhat cozy science fiction, and it was all about the incredibly successful crew of the cargo hauling and trading spaceship being asked to take on a new ship and train cadets -- what were the dynamics of trying to bring on a second set of officers? Who pays for outfitting the new ship? Why is one of the new crew so resentful? What's going on with the instructional designer? What will the results of trying to develop a new curriculum be? Will the main character get past his grief at his great love's murder? Will the two pairs of two friends ever develop any romantic relationships? Or will captain pair up with captain? Tune in to the next book to find out, i suppose, except they did solve who was going to pay for the ship outfitting in the last chapter where the actual negotiations of how to create the educational foundation occurred "off screen" as it were, and the book ends with the CEO making sure the primary stockholder (narrator, ship captain,  and best friend) isn't upset that the CEO completed the negotiation without consult.

I dunno, i think a little editing could have slimmed down the book OR made more vivid the thrashing over whether one gets top of the line mattresses or midrange.