Technically I'm still on deadline, but not for anything paying — I've had less to do in the last week than all of 2016 so far. Guess what's filled the vacuum? Suspicions of encroaching doom have totally tried, but I've written 25 pages of fiction and Dennis Cooper's blog is back from the dead so I'm not upset I've wandered into this clearing. Even though it's nice to be working all the time when that work is primarily incredibly fun. Not as much when it comprises two huge projects with soul-throttling deadlines that test new skills and happen to be assigned and due in the space of a month bookended by two weddings of significance (not a long list!).
At my day job, the person who sat behind me took a new job with my former employer, and I think my guidance was nonthreatening, but there is no easy way to break cafeteria-style seating to somebody. Especially somebody who was, until now, enjoying their own desk. My desk still holds a lot of charm and novelty for me. A bust of my favorite composer adorns it. Insofar as a space can be self-aware, it knows it's a luxury.
For a while this year I was so busy I tried to take up a new hobby. My criteria for which: it had to be visual, some element of construction had to be involved, the results would not be ephemeral. I landed on arranging fake flowers, which has some overhead, so I didn't get in too deep. I'm always alert to an excuse to not get in deep, because otherwise, I'm ready to go too deep, all the time, always. I am relieved to be bad at it and to be reminded of it every day with the cartoonishly funerary arrangement I brought to work. It's a welcome counterpoint to my constant stressing to myself that everything is finite. These fake flowers will be preciously goth for the decades they take to turn.