between the motion and the act falls the shadow

[ontology]

I was going to write about how (as is generally the case) I'm a bit embarrassed about being emotional, and I'm inexpressibly grateful for all of you, and then I was going to throw in something witty and exciting, but I feel wretched and am not very up to dashing turns of phrase. I've been under the weather most of the week, and it's decided to be tricksy and fool me into thinking I'm all right, so I eat a proper sandwich instead of toast or move about a bit too vigorously, and whoosh! -- here comes the nausea. Great fun, as you can see. It's pounding behind my eyes, too, now. I don't seem to get sick very often, but when I do it just clings. It's never very dramatic, just irritating and uncomfortable and lingering.

Firefly, by the way, is extraordinarily fun to write in. I'm, um. Still writing Christmas presents for my local friends (er, maybe they're very early Valentine's Day presents now?), and most of them are in the Firefly-verse, and -- it's delicious, really. I get a little drunk on words. I love the dialect; it reminds me a bit of the Elizabethan era, when everybody seemed to be so dizzy with wordplay. (Perhaps if I ended up seeing it first-hand I'd be disappointed. Perhaps they just had a disproportionate record of really excellent writings survive, I don't know. Shakespeare's coinages are enough for ten or fifteen writers, to be sure.)

take_a_sadsong commented on my entry of 31 December with, "I've decided that for me 2008 will be the year of doing, and not just dreaming of doing." Which I think is a brilliant sentiment and exactly what I didn't know I was looking for. It's how I spent most of my time, you know: dreaming of doing. Occasionally I have really extraordinary adventures, but mostly they happen because I have people to drag me along on them. I'm not forthright. I'm not in control of my own destiny. I'm like a character in a bad novel -- I don't act: I'm acted upon. And I remember how good and right I felt after my impulsive trip to Oliver!. I wanted something -- and I got it, because I tried hard and did things that don't come naturally to me. This should be a pattern, rather than an exception. I'm writing this here because I need someone to keep me in mind of it. I mostly forget to make resolutions for the new year (other than the age-old: stop biting my fingernails, and lose weight; for the first time in possibly fifteen years I seem to be making some headway on the former, so that's a bit encouraging even if it is something silly), but that's what I want to resolve. And I want to be better person, because I'm not much of one, really, but doesn't everyone? I just -- feel so tired all the time. And there are so many things I want to do -- learn to sew, write and write and write, work on projects -- and I know in ten years I'll be disgusted with myself because I never did them, and I won't have the time later. But it's so hard to -- do things. Ugh. I don't know. Rubbish to whinge about your own resolutions, isn't it? Bad form.

I think Moony and I are going to go off to watch Firefly together. Because nothing cheers one so much as vests with buckles on the back. (Well. Okay. There are other incentives, too.)

Comments

[mermaidrain.livejournal.com]

"I've decided that for me 2008 will be the year of doing, and not just dreaming of doing."

That is a million shades of brilliant. I want to do that too. Great way of putting it.