Sometimes I go to bed or wake up knowing exactly what I wish to speak about. This morning is not such a case, as I’m not particularly inclined to write about yesterday (largely because it was too strange of a day and because the sort of incoherence it had is not the kind that is best served by a public blog entry, but rather by a series of private conversations, if that was possible). Naturally speaking, I woke up after the usual sleep and almost immediately started pondering at least one of those conversations, albeit perhaps the least stressful of the lot, and wondered if it would even be wise to try, or what approach would be best, as communication is an area of nearly continual dissatisfaction in my life, and probably not only for me but for others involved in trying to communicate (or not communicate) with me.

In a room that is more tidy than I have seen it in some time, I look at my computer’s clock and see that I have a couple of hours until the condo owner we rent from shows up for an inspection. I still have some tidying up to do, but considering I can see large amounts of the lovely wood paneling on the floor, I am pleased for the most part. Cleaning has never been a particularly enjoyable task for me to do, and I have always tended to be a bit cluttered in many pursuits, but at the same time I have read plenty of studies that suggest the positive effects of tidiness on peace of mind, and quite honestly I could use some of that ever elusive quality myself.

Besides finishing up some room cleaning, I have to decide how to spend the rest of my day. Some of its activities, like doing the laundry and grocery shopping, seem pretty much decided as they are necessary weekly functions. Other tasks, of course, depend widely on the day itself. As I woke up with more than a usual headache and a bit of an upset stomach from yesterday, which is not surprising given the sort of stress I felt, I figure a relaxing and low key day would be good. I don’t happen to have any movies I want to see, any work that is really pressing, or any particularly urgent projects (since I finished the slightly overdue book review for the Michigan War Studies review on Thursday, but I still need to actually send it in, so I suppose that would be good to do even if it won’t take that long to manage). Now that this is done, I still have to figure out what to do.

Part of the issue, I suppose, is that I have a deep need to feel productive. Even if that productivity is measured in pages of books to read that will simply be added to the many thousands of pages that I have already read, or in writing a few hundred more words to the many hundreds of words that I have written that will be read by a few people, misread by a few more, and contribute very little to the sorts of conversations and communication and peace of life that I would like for myself and those around me. I honestly do not know, in looking at the tangles of my life, where communication from me is wanted, or would be helpful, and yet I cannot help but wish to be productive, wish for my ceaseless toil to bear some good fruit. What hardworking farmer does not want to partake of a bountiful harvest. Yet as hard as the farmer may work, that harvest depends on circumstances he cannot control or influence in any way, even if they dramatically affect the harvest he gains and on which he depends for his well-being. We are not so cut off from the toil and anxiety of our ancestors after all, no matter how far away we are from the ancestral farms. I suppose that is enough to think about for one morning, at least.