On a couch, May 12, 2007

May 13, 2007 at 6:47 am (Journal)

If we are to be technical, it is May 13, at 2:23 in the morning. However, May 13 would be both Sunday and Mother’s Day, and I yet have hopes that I will be able to pull off something strangely beautiful in honor of my matriarch. Perhaps I’ll let her see some of my poetry. She’s seen what has been posted in the Lanthorn, on of Houghton’s literary publications, but beyond that not much. She enjoys seeing me write, I think, so I’ll give her more (along with chocolate and a nice card).

Finals are over, and I’m preparing to begin an adventure in mayterm, learning about Linux. I hope I’ll enjoy it: if I really do, I might switch over entirely.

My mind, at the moment, isn’t really consumed by Mayterm though, but rather on the fact that I am writing at 2:30 in the morning, and can only seem to manage it sitting in a not-terribly-comfortable lopsided position on my couch. Professor Leax claimed that it wasn’t possible to write on a soft chair, because you simply fall asleep instead. I’m still young enough to manage the couch, but I do seem to need to scrunch up.

I should have written earlier today, but I didn’t. Summer always strikes me with the deadliest sin of sloth. I awoke at sometime between noon and one today, toddled upstairs in pajama pants and a ripped t-shirt, and made myself biscuits out of a can. I then proceeded to play Riviera (a fun hand-held video game based loosely on Norse Mythology) and ignore any semblance of responsibility that came my way. The biscuits and the game managed to team up and mug away six precious hours of my life before I went to celebrate an early mother’s day meal with my parents.

We ate at Earls, and I garroted my arteries with sausage gravy, cheesy-potatoe soup, and a slice of chocolate peanut butter pie with hot fudge slathered over the top of it. Bad for the heart, I won’t dispute, but terribly good for the soul.
Speaking of good for the soul, I intend on going to Church tomorrow, the first time in several months. I don’t really think this is a bad thing–I’ve had chapel two times a week for the past two semesters to keep me company–but it will be nice to drive down to the old Houghton Church building, and join the congregation I’ve been a part of since I was born in worship. They have just finished refurbishing the central worship-hall, and Dad says that the acoustics are simply breathtaking. We are a hymn oriented community during the summer, and I can’t wait to hear what the space will sound like once we get rolling.

It is nearing 3:00, now, and I aught get to bed before too much longer, or I won’t have the willpower to drag myself out of bed in the morning. Herein lies a great irony of my craft of writing, that for more than the past twelve hours, I’ve avoided it like the plauge, making up countless excuses about why I can’t write at the current moment. And now, as I begin to work, I am cut off by my own procrastination.

I am doing better, though, than I have been doing summers ago. Where I might once have waited a month in self loathing before working on a piece, it has only taken me an afternoon or two.

Perhaps tomorrow I’ll be able to begin a bit right after church. Or, if the good Lord wills it, after I take a nap.

Good Night to everyone,

~David King

P.S. Show the woman who bore you nine months that you appreciate that, despite the innumerable pieces of evidence to the contrary, you do appreciate her. Do the cooking, and maybe your own wash. They appreciate stuff like that.