rinue | reeling in the years

I crashed for a little while today. I've been back in London a week, and it hit me that I'm going to have to do this eleven more times, this getting through a week. And to be honest, I'm out of free leisure activities to fill my time. There's another graveyard or two I could hit, a few more museums - more rooms of the British Museum alone. I can watch more free movies at the BFI; I can borrow more books from the library. But after a year, I'm at the tail end of diminishing returns. I mostly sit at home reading a few blogs and The New York Times, then playing solitaire and listening to This American Life.

I still love you, London; I'm just not feeling it right now. And I am already bored of the food I can afford regularly - heavy wintery stuff that just doesn't cut it for summer.

Mostly I'm annoyed because I've been back seven days and have only had classes on three of them. I don't feel like I'm doing anything, although I have sent out many e-mails and made various director-level production decisions (of which many, many more need to be made). I spend a lot of time waiting around. I spend a lot of time sleeping - a lot of time. I'm sleeping a lot of the time. I just don't really feel like getting up. It's not depression, though. I should probably pick up some lortadine.

I wrote a rough draft of a poem last night at around 3 AM. It starts very rough indeed, but it picks up at the end.