There really isn’t much to report at this time.

There really isn’t much to report at this time. My dad came over yesterday and worked to build us a baby gate so that Liam doesn’t sleepwalk down the stairs when we move into our house. I took on a freelance project which consumed most of my time today.
I’ve had no muse for the past several months. My dreams are rich and varied, but I haven’t made much of an attempt to remember them. They seem to be mostly a source of entertainment for me–there are no great insights coming out of them, no deep truths.
I doubt that I will stay at my present job for more than three years. I am really toughing it out to last through a full year, which I absolutely must do to find more gainful employment again. I’m ready to hang on for three years, though, if need be, and get all of the debts and house paid down to where I can take a lesser-paying job in a nice, go-nowhere role like the one I’ve had in so many places, and just ride that out until I have to retire.
I have this mild desire to get back into learning math again, but it isn’t especially vexing or convincing as those things go. I still feel as if I need to learn one particular thing really well, instead of trying to get my mind on many different topics and ideas. I would almost rather die having developed a thoroughly memorized understanding of all of the math I had to learn in high school, than continue to breeze through various popular books for the layperson that don’t require too much commitment from the brain.
I am in need of one particular thing to commit to, be it math or art or music. But, I am so reluctant to admit how much I will have to be starting out as a complete novice, and how I will likely die being nothing more than a competent undergrad at whatever topic I land on.
The thing is that the winds of youth that compel one forward for the sake of fame and fortune and attracting the eyes of someone special have all blown away, and I am feeling the winds of the old man blowing in upon me now, and I don’t know exactly what to do with them. Should I happily take up an old man’s craft, like whittling or building bird houses or birding, and be done with it?
It is, I suppose, with a lot of regret that I have to come clean and admit that there will be nothing novel or special in my writing henceforth, if there ever was. But, that magic groove of really feeling the muse speak to me, even if I was perhaps not saying anything really new–that groove is gone and so my writing can’t possibly be interesting ever again.

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