there is something wonderful about seeing your work in print. even if its unfinished, even if its imperfect, a tangible delicate rendering of so many hours is precious. i love my job. (though i am glad it's only the first proof.)
though, work is taking over my life. in on saturdays, working all night sometimes. it's a big thing.
and i am to the point i can't go on like this. i am unwilling to give up everything, though i am proud to do what i am capable of. glad to give what i have, but refuse to let it take more.
so i'm cultivating some time for just me. while i sort out a lot of things. about me. about us. about who i want to be and how.
wednesday i took the day off and went to alnwick, a tiny town just south of the border in england. the kind of little place with a mercat cross in the cobbled square and a norman city gate still in tact. a castle in the gardens and all that.
and the most beautiful bookshop ever. the victorian train station is now rows upon rows of old dusty volumes in which to lose yourself. giant iron grated windows and a tiny waiting room with red velvet buttoned couches.
i read some of Sir Walter Scott's epic Marmion, dithered in the youth religious section over edwardian primer books of saints and reveled in childish amusement at the hidden "spicy" section wraught with James Bond type soft porn. Mostly russian nypho spies and wanton women of the civil war. It was positively hilarious. who knew their was retro manly romance novels?
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