I've been home, (and that'd be Nelson,) for nearly 48 hours. My body is great, albeit even plump-er than before the trip, but my head is exhausted. Yesterday I managed to get up at 7 but had a nap in the afternoon, and today I couldn't get up until 10.30.
I've tons of photographs and thoughts/observations/craziness to share, but the Old Head needs to start working so I can work on them, although if the OH were working, it and I should be working towards the Art Awards, for which photographs are due 26th of this month. (Four "working" in one sentence...)
From the very edge of the left field, while I was away I sold a short story. No, that's an exaggeration; I got paid to have one of my first drafts as an example in a writing course. This and the fact the only thing I sold in my hitherto only solo exhibition was a sunset shot makes me wonder if I'm in the wrong field. Too late, I've got to consume the stash in my stash room before four small boxes arrive.
I'm a weaver. I have more respect for myself as a weaver than a writer or a photographer. Besides, there are fewer of us in the world, which makes us more special, yes?