My blogging self keeps having identity crises, which means primarily that I don’t know what to blog, so I blog nothing.  Who is WhatWhileWeSlept?  What is her audience?  What is her purpose?  Or is it just me, here?  Could it possibly be just me, just writing?  That would be the simplest thing, and probably the best, but would I be a writer if I were just me?  Is this a real conversation?  Maybe Floury and WhatWhileWeSlept should get together and argue about their selves.  Today, I’m going to throw self-conscious reservations out the window.   Even though, yes, I did just type two sentences and then erase them.  But I’ll call that editing, not self-conscious reservation.

I’ve been getting out of the house to work, lately, and that’s been so good for my work.  I love my house, but trying to do work there has been getting increasingly difficult, as I have to keep getting up to turn on a light, or turn off a light, or make some tea, or look through my records, or angrily kick my records, or go clean the bathroom.  All these things must be done — understood — but what must be done more is work.  I would like to get three grant proposals written by the end of February, and the sooner I can do that, the happier I will be.  I need to change my employment information at Interfaith, I need to file my income taxes, I need to file a FAFSA.  The sooner, you know, the happier.  Maybe when all this is done, I can get another paying customer, or start my Etsy shop again, and make some more money.  Which will justify my coming to a coffee shop to work more fully.

Today I noticed that Regions still hasn’t applied an ancient deposit to my checking account balance, which means that after buying a cup of coffee an hour and a half ago, I had $2.64 in the bank.  The thrill, you know, of discovering that.  Just now.  The jump of the heart, the sting of the fingertips.  Maybe I could sell my hair.  For twenty dollars, to Mme. Sofronie, Hair Goods of All Kinds.

In other news, the boy across the table from me is reading Gravity’s Rainbow, and when he asked if I was reading anything, I said Harry Potter.  Rather proudly.  There aren’t many books I’d be proud to volunteer when a flannel-shirted young man asks what I am reading, while he is reading Pynchon.  “Oh, just something I picked up — letters of Derrida and Cixous — just a little light reading,” I should like to say.  While I have definitely been using these stories lately as an excuse to not face certain painful matters of the heart, to sit instead alone and (the most shocking episode) drink wine and eat cookies, they deserve a better sentence about them here: they are adding a spice, or a breath, to my consciousness.  The last book I read had one of the most moving atonement/redemption motifs I’ve ever come across, and I’ve come across a few.  I’m reading them faster than I’ve ever read anything (that I remember), putting the current 700+ page book on its front cover in just a few sittings.  The series is involved, intricate, complex, and it’s only now, four books in, that the story is beginning to unfold.

I started this series in order to acquaint myself with some pop culture, I’m really out of the loop, and to find out why most of my best-loved friends dress up as McGonagall and Snape and stand in line for the next book to be released … or the movie to open … or send their husbands to stand in line for the book after their water just broke & contractions are starting … anyway, I’m finding out.

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