I feel like a dry sponge lately. All I want to do is soak up stuff. I want to read, read, read, and watch cool movies, and listen to tons of music. I don’t have any juice to squeeze out onto the page. My blogging has been perfunctory (but I gotta keep the streak going!). My fiction writing is non-existent at the mo’ (no time). The notebook’s doing alright, but the notebook’s always doing alright (my one constant).

Can a person take a reading holiday? Is that allowed? Can I just spend a week doing nothing but soaking up words, and images, and music?

Maybe that wouldn’t help, though. It’s kinda hard to imagine a whole week of just downtime. I’m so used to getting up when the kids get up, making them breakfast, changing the diapers, refereeing the disputes, buzzing from kitchen to living room to bedroom to bathroom to help with whatever “crisis” is at hand. I’m not sure I could handle an entire week of sitting around and reading. I’m too conditioned for controlled chaos after six and a half years of raising children.

Still. It would nice to have a *bit* more time for reading. For getting lost in an album or two. For having a film noir double-feature on a Saturday afternoon.

I need more input time. It’s a constant refrain, I know. I’m always complaining about not getting enough input. But right now, I’m a dry sponge, crumbling into brittle fibers. I need to get dunked in a bucket of input. A good soak. A trip into the imagination.