Work went fine. Boss was all sweetness and light. Laughing, joking, counseling. Which would be fine, except all of us sort of knew that we couldn't trust it. Our laughter was nervous laughter.

But I got out of there, having accomplished a lot today regardless. I headed down to Christopher Street where I spent $32 on tea. Then, I had a quick dinner at the Factory Cafe, and headed home. I came in, fed the dog, and sat down to write. That was two hours ago. I've been at this since Tuesday, and I've got twenty pages. (Twelve point type with one inch margins.) I think it's good stuff. I'm enjoying writing so much. I'd love to post some of it up on my blog, but that would almost be jinxing it. Here at home, life seems sane. My bed is made. There are no dirty dishes in the sink. My den is coming together, slowly but surely. This weekend I'm going to solve the storage problem, buying bins of some sort. Large bins for restraints, vet wrap, tape and Saran wrap, and dropcloths. Medium size bins for rope, butt toys, candles, chains, clean-up supplies, J-lube. Small bins for clips and panic snaps, handcuffs, padlocks, safety razors. This will enable me to be free to be inspired during a scene, to feel less the need to script it out beforehand and not deviate.

Here at home, life is good. No, life is good. Life is very good.

I had an exchange on Leather Navigator with He Who Plays With Knives the other night. We were talking about MAL. I said that coming back and going into work on Tuesday was like taking a bucket of cold water in the face. "Right," he said, "Back to reality."

"No," I replied, "This is not reality. MAL is reality. That's what's real. This is sleepwalking."

Or it can be sleepwalking. If you let it be sleepwalking. But it doesn't have to be.

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