Jimmy Carter rocks.

A new neighbor is moving in next door. The yellow moving van is parked out front and burdened feet plod constantly along the stairs that flank my apartment. She’s playing move-in music and it sounds as cold as the morning air the propped-open door lets in.

I’m stuck at the desk with the latest project forgotten under my forearms and just an ounce of Coke left in the fridge. I can’t imagine the next four hours of work without a tall cool glass of the sugery stuff, so I put off working, and thereby lengthen the workday and increase the anxiety I feel about the encroaching deadline. The answer is to go out and buy a bottle, but that would be a gross act of procrastination and I’m still in denial.

Every morning I drag like this.

Last night it was Yo-Yo Ma and the Silk Road Project with Andrew and Pam and Daniel and a packed house of regular and irregular symphony goers. It was a long night of dressing and dinner and wine and music and talking and dessert. In the past, when I have gone to the symphony, the music permeated my senses thoroughly and I could tell something about it; today I recall nothing of the music. I can only say it was good. I liked it. It was neat to see talent from the east and their far-out instruments.

I guess it doesn’t matter when I start working as long as I stay up to complete the number of hours scheduled for today.

I’m going to the store.