Alas, my blog entries have been negatively correlated to the amount of work I've had to deal with. This isn't a big deal if it didn't accurately imply that my involvement in other things I'd like to do is being compromised. Even a conscious attempt to 'make time' for other stuff isn't quite working, and my general reading has screeched to a halt since I finished How the Mind Works two or three weeks ago. I haven't gone for Capoeira for nearly two months.

The perpetrator that has been hungrily consuming my time is Socscistan. However, it's not a bad monster to feed, because I'm learning even more that I really like doing such work. Writing, particularly about fields in the social sciences, is right up my alley and I can spend hours reading articles written by contributors and editing them, even at the expense of sleep, or silly TWC and other modules. Getting into editor mode hardly requires a conscious switch from being oneself to another, and when I do what I like to the point I'm engrossed, I do feel as if I am dimensionally somewhere else. Like I'm on drugs. Or something.

One thing I've become disconcerted about though is the increasingly immense gulf between my ability to write and my ability to articulate. Filling a blank slate with words that swirl into logical, eloquent lines and sentences is more and more so my cup of tea, but my ability to convert that into spoken fluency is hardly on the same level.

And I'm never good at chasing people. I realize just how nice I can end up being at times, to my dismay. Hmm.