It is grey. Relentlessly, grimly, greyly grey.

Grey, grey, grey.


So very grey.

Under normal circumstances, I like a nice rain. I am one of those people who can curl up with a book and the cat and a cup of tea and rain on the roof, in a cheerfully cozy cliche. But this is killin’ me.

A large chunk of my youth was spent in Oregon, home of the soft grey sky, and I don’t recall spending my entire life in a state of trudging exhaustion, but evidentally somewhere between now and then, a mental switch was thrown. I don’t think Minnesota did this to quite this extent–there’s a sort of pregnant anticipation to a grey sky there, as you wait for snow, and I confess, even after seven years, there’s something sort of cheerful about a falling snow. It’s when it’s done falling and you have to shovel it that it gets to you.

Perhaps it’s that it’s been grey for days and days, and not even the good thumping of a thunderstorm to get the blood moving. I want to sleep. My naps have gone from one good snooze after lunch to a kind of straggling series of catnaps interspersed with work. Already struggling with the frustrations of meandering month-long artistic malaise (I think “malaise” may be better than “block”–I have plenty of ideas, I just can’t seem to sustain to bring them to term) this is not helping.

Oh, well. Eventually the sun will shine, and I’ll be inspired again. Into every life, a little rain, etc, etc.

But at the moment, sheesh, the grey!

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