Gone, But Not Forgotten, John William Waterhouse
20,954, A Lamentation of Swans. The rain has come. Woke up about six a.m. and lay warm and snug beneath the comforter, listening. Rain has a voice–the drippy syncopation of tiny drops striking hard surfaces, the hollow incoherency of wind, sweeping through, shifting the rain about, and the thrum of water falling swiftly on wide, open spaces, the sky a gray-white maw weeping over the earth. It’s nice to be at home today.
I’d like to work a bit on the outline for the special project, but I’ve got new narrative to write for A Lamentation of Swans too. It’s paramount I work on Swans every day of this year. Though I’ve written productively these past two days, I’ve also cut much, slicing and dicing, so I decided to go ahead and re-set the word meter. Might as well keep up with myself.
Yesterday’s yoga practice was a good beginning. The muscles in my arms and the back of my thighs are a bit sore from the stretching. I’m following the morning practice video at Yoga Journal. This morning I’m going to focus on my positioning. I’m so unsteady.