I've had no desire to write for myself lately. I normally have an internal monologue running at all times in the back of my brain. When I listen to it, I have to write it. Other times I just let it go and it continually records over the old tape. Well, it's off. Off enough that I can't even write this. I'm always busy and always sick. I haven't even THOUGHT about Anne Boleyn in months.
(lie: I thought about her yesterday)
I'm in a creative writing class, and it's bad enough that I'm just recycling things I wrote in the past and turning them in. I even used a blog entry from here. Interestingly, it was the worst grade I've received overall.
So what have I been doing?
Reading fun books.
Failing at arm wrestling. I lost count how many times I lost this night, but it was somewhere around "all".
Watching birds fly south.
Noticing how crumbly adobe is.
Training docents. I should make a post about the castle, but that requires me to upload photos from my cameraaaaanoooo
But, some brief observations: it's not fancy at all in there. In fact, it's tiny and far less than I had expected. The grounds are more impressive, with all manner of Sonoran flora, and rabbits and quail and falling down wood buildings and historic dump sites (from construction and later rehabs) full of god only knows, but the bomb squad was there about a moldering can of black powder.