It's been a fairly productive writing week for me and I'm temporarily pleased about that. Why does being happy about it never last for long? There's always something else lurking and pushing me along. I guess it's the nature of the writing beast.
I've been having a great time though, discussing economics and politics on one of the internet sites I frequent. Sometimes the people who post there infuriate me and sometimes they amuse me and occasionally they cause me to think about something in a new way. It's easy to become insular when I spend so much time alone. Or maybe that's just my excuse. 'Posting' does take more of my time than it should. Now I've given up one not-so-productive habit and acquired another.
I made my usual Saturday afternoon pigrimage to the free movie at the library. This week it was "Surviving Picasso" and I came away from it wondering how he managed to get all his women (and I use his advisedly) to subsume themselves in his life. I guess it was his enormous talent, his ego and his magnetic sexuality/personality. Damn, I wish I could find a magnet that would do that. Sometimes it would be just peachy to have someone at my beck and call so that I could commune with my muse.
But then I wouldn't be able to send them away when I wanted to work. Conscience I suppose and the blessing and curse, the ability to know how someone else feels. I doubt that Picasso cared about how anyone felt. It simply didn't matter. I detest a lot of his work and he was a monster in some respects but Guernica will stand and perhaps that's his legacy to the world.