Driftwalking.

Back in Fairfield.

Thinking about life and unwritten things.

I've got a couple of entries that I've been intending to post here for some time. But even though I'm trapped in a hotel room waiting on an overnight package to arrive with nothing to do until it gets here, I'm not in a writing mood of any kind.

It's strange to admit that my priorities have changed. There was a time when I really wanted a readership here. There was also a time when I was a better writer than I am now--my ability with words is dwindling.

Part of me wants to start writing daily again here because of the restorative effects it will have on my writing skills. Another part of me knows I have other work to do. Assuming things go well over the next month, I'll have a house to renovate, an instrument (piano) and a language (French) to which I must return, and a motorcycle to repair.

I have begun to notice how vituperative my conversation has become. This element in my communication is now almost constant, and it seems remarkable to me that I haven't identified and curbed the habit long before now.

I think I've been laboring under the mistaken notion that just because I'm being critical, I must also be brutal, and that is an avenue of thought I must redirect.

My mind wanders, and the world spins again.