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Energy Regulator on the Blink
Monday, August 15th, 2005 12:14 pmEnergy levels all over the place at the moment. I mostly feel tired, but haven't done much to warrant it. There are bouts of restless energy, too. Cat-chasing helps.
Saturday I revived myself by bouncing around in rough sea (less bruising than the average dance-floor, and better for the skin). All that kinetic energy slamming around, ready to bash you into the shingle: yet all you have to do is pick up your feet (kicking off slithery ribbons of kelp) and let the sea carry you, and (as long as you aren't too close to the beach or the breakwater) you'll be rocked as easy as a cork in a puddle. I stayed in until my knees started hurting when I played dodge with the bigger waves -- they always win, anyway, there's always another right behind -- and crawled out to devour lunch on the beach with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ladymoonray.
Party Saturday night. Social life fun and good, really it is. Must endeavour to continue having one, rather than succumb to reclusiveness.
Sunday I went for a walk, leaving about 5 minutes before the rain began. Walking through woods in a rainstorm is a feast for the senses: smell of wet leaf-mulch, red spikes of cuckoo-pint bright as daylight, ripe blackberries all plump and swollen with rainwater. I'd forgotten how changeless the landscape is, within even the smallest tract of woodland: ridges of earth at the boundary of the wood, paths that've been trodden for years, decades ... (I've no idea how long the footpaths, bridleways and common land have been common, around here: where I grew up there was little public land, and few footpaths, and no sense of age or inviolate commonality.)
Emerging from woodland onto the brow of a field feels like escape, like returning to the real world. The woodshore, and then the path on the turf border of the field, and then the field itself with stubble already ploughed in: this is the aspect of British landscape that I grew up with, and have neglected in favour of high hills and crashing waves and broad golden strands.
Today I got up to take the rubbish out. (Foxes, else.) Then lounged in bed, reading and dozing, for three hours: I couldn't wake up enough to go back downstairs and make breakfast.
Must ... resist ... inertia.
Saturday I revived myself by bouncing around in rough sea (less bruising than the average dance-floor, and better for the skin). All that kinetic energy slamming around, ready to bash you into the shingle: yet all you have to do is pick up your feet (kicking off slithery ribbons of kelp) and let the sea carry you, and (as long as you aren't too close to the beach or the breakwater) you'll be rocked as easy as a cork in a puddle. I stayed in until my knees started hurting when I played dodge with the bigger waves -- they always win, anyway, there's always another right behind -- and crawled out to devour lunch on the beach with
ladymoonray.Party Saturday night. Social life fun and good, really it is. Must endeavour to continue having one, rather than succumb to reclusiveness.
Sunday I went for a walk, leaving about 5 minutes before the rain began. Walking through woods in a rainstorm is a feast for the senses: smell of wet leaf-mulch, red spikes of cuckoo-pint bright as daylight, ripe blackberries all plump and swollen with rainwater. I'd forgotten how changeless the landscape is, within even the smallest tract of woodland: ridges of earth at the boundary of the wood, paths that've been trodden for years, decades ... (I've no idea how long the footpaths, bridleways and common land have been common, around here: where I grew up there was little public land, and few footpaths, and no sense of age or inviolate commonality.)
Emerging from woodland onto the brow of a field feels like escape, like returning to the real world. The woodshore, and then the path on the turf border of the field, and then the field itself with stubble already ploughed in: this is the aspect of British landscape that I grew up with, and have neglected in favour of high hills and crashing waves and broad golden strands.
Today I got up to take the rubbish out. (Foxes, else.) Then lounged in bed, reading and dozing, for three hours: I couldn't wake up enough to go back downstairs and make breakfast.
Must ... resist ... inertia.
