Even in the time it took to move the laptop from its position over by the outdoor speakers to beside my chair in the labyrinth, the light has vanished. It is dark. The fire is warm. How many more nights will I have to sit out here comfortably by the fire?
Anyway, here’s my thought for the day: it’s not finished, it’s not finished.
The astonishingly geometric arcs of the top half of the labyrinth stop short in a field of mud. I have to use a wire brush on my boots every time I want to go into the house. I got the other 3,000 pounds of stone moved this afternoon in record time, but it sits there in a cenotaph, unfinished.
There are only two weeks remaining before an audience sits down in a park to watch Coriolanus. It is not finished.
I keep seeing graphic images of music in my head. None of it is even started, much less finished.
The fire in front of me glows but does not flame. It is not finished.
The Ruby Red vodka tonic next to me shifts its ice in the dark. It is not finished.
My life, though wonderful in many regards, even enviable, is not finished.