November 30: The Anchor Was Up, Friday, Brief Pauses

At last the anchor was up, the sails were set, and off we glided.  It was a short, cold Christmas, and as the short northern day merged into night, we found ourselves almost broad upon the wintry ocean, whose freezing spray cased us in ice, as in polished armour . . . 

Friday.  Finally.  I am setting sail, like the Pequod, into the wintry ocean of the weekend.,

For some reason, this week has seemed long.  Really long.  It started with finishing my water essay.  It's ending tonight with a basketball game, dinner, and, maybe, some of my Christmas essay.  That's what I have tonight.  Not much.  I'm too tired.

I've been working out the ideas for my new essay all day long as I sat answering phones at the medical office.  It's the way that I've written for years.  Moments stolen during the day.  Perhaps that's why I write poems as opposed to novels or short stories.  I think it's easier to think poetically in these brief pauses in my days.  Images recorded on sticky notes and paper scraps.  Yes, I keep my journal close by, but I don't always have enough time in between phone calls to drag out it out and scribble.

At the basketball game this evening, I will be reading a biography of Charles Schulz.  That's part of my research for my Christmas essay.  I think.  I know I want to write about Charlie Brown.  Somehow.  Don't know what shape all this is going to take.  Yet.

Saint Marty is thankful this evening for time to write and read.