Rushed days

New year found me with two writing deadlines – not that I am complaining but it suddenly occurred to me how demanding a blog upkeep can be. I am reading little fiction these days but more art history, the fascinating period that was the Renaissance and a lot more articles on contemporary art. A moment ago, I was writing about an artist and my reading of his works as a kind of fascination, an enthrallment with boundaries and how they are consistently taken apart. I would probably end up writing of his works as meditative flows, introspective journeys. I am not sure but my overworked mind seems to be going that way. I would normally write about the fiction I read here but it seems I got stuck with Annie Proulx’s “Accordion Crimes”, which is a good place to be in. Well, that’s fascination for me – writers who weave pictures that come together in my head and bring me to places both familiar and strange yet exciting to be. Most of the time, those elsewheres are my refuge but very little to make for those retreats now. One thing remains though, I will not sacrifice sleep for the deadlines. I guess I found a rhythm to commune with words everyday, and claim them to an extent.

Children are fascinating talkers. During one of those slow nights vacation allowed, the younger one asked where he was when his brother was born. And because I told him an equally fascinating story about babies being angels while unborn, he smartly asked where his wings are now. My quick but not very convincing answer was he probably left them in heaven. I am missing a lot of these conversations with the little one lately. Once before sleep, he inquired whether his pillow has brains and whether it thinks! He is now occupied with tearing apart toys and other objects, stringing, cutting and pasting paper, popsicle sticks together. Time is fast and I wonder how much of these I can keep, most I hope.
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