And, amid brief frustrations as to exact dates, processes unrecorded, I realize I am enjoying myself: while making dinner in the kitchen, I say aloud to no one: But this is fun.
Strange, too, because my work on AIDS artworks often seems exhaustingly sad; but once I break through the resistance to the dark past, there is such vivid life in the emotions, in the art works. And probably the innate pleasure of making, which I forget most days.
But now I must also get ready for tomorrow morning's lecture; since I already know what I need to talk about, this consists of just re-hearing my class CD of examples. And I discover that they are, also, enjoyable (especially Jody Diamond's In That Bright World for voices and gamelan, always a huge favorite of mine; but they all seem interesting).
Which suggests that my boredom with my own work, my resistance to starting, has nothing to do with the pleasure of actually doing it...
Ah, the complexes and irrational patterns of one's own weaknesses.