I almost slept until 1pm to-day. Getting a little closer. Summer's finally ending, too, I've just realised. Looking forward to the autumn and winter months. There aren't fall leaves or snow around here, but there are things I associate with the darker part of the year. I remember driving to Trisa's house with gingerbread lattes while listening to Elvis Costello's Brutal Youth. I remember the Mystery Science Theatre 3000 Turkey Day marathons. Yes, all right out of Norman Rockwell. Americana.
I'm already a page behind on Chapter 8 because I had to spend yesterday finishing Chapter 7. Jury duty's not entirely to blame, as I was just having a dim spell of some kind last chapter. These things do come upon me inexplicably now and then. A good measure are the hands. If I suddenly find I can't draw hands, I'm in one of those funks. Then there are times when everything seems effortless, where I can draw three dimensional environments credibly without drawing horizon lines and vanishing points. Those are times I can actually pretend I have camera lenses to mess with.
I need to stop checking my e-mail so much. I guess it's been almost a year now since Sonya decided to stop talking to me, but I still wake up almost every day with the vague hope that she or Caitlin will have e-mailed me to say, "You know what, there's no reason we can't be friends." But of course, I still don't know why Sonya turned on me in the first place. Though lately I think I've come to understand my anger about it a lot better. For a long time I had this vague feeling that it was simply my wounded pride that I could matter so little to her. But now I'm pretty sure it was the ease with which she did something so cruel. She knew what she did would hurt me, and it would require minimal effort or risk for her to avoid hurting me. I suppose it could have to do with the fact that she has something like eight trillion friends. I can't imagine what it would be like to consider so many people to be friends. It must be like spreading your affections in a thin glaze, and if one square is cut out of it, the integrity of the whole isn't affected much. I've never been part of a society like that, so maybe what seems to be callousness to me is really a sort of culture clash. Or maybe I just want to rationalise her behaviour that badly, especially since no-one else seems to feel she did anything wrong. It's true, there are a lot of social dynamics I've completely failed to comprehend in my life. And I have to admit the fact that no-one seems able to explain some of them rationally makes me suspicious.
I suppose it's time I got back to the Middle Ages . . .