It is a function of the occasion to forget itself, to make itself lost in the surrounding circumstances. Occasion occasion occasion.
I am unexpectedly alive, querulous, ready to write to a purpose. I do not have one yet but I will. I will have to arrange or conceive some idea, or target. I think this is typical: finishing an MS, publishing it, a couple weeks of weak writing, blowing out the pipes, then nothing, then this.
I never have an idea anymore unless compelled by the occasion of experiencing that selfsame nothing. I believe this is a function of age or efficiency. I ride one horse to a stop, walk around the corral a bit, select a fresh mount (or it selects me) and off I go.
I am reminded of a comic strip, where a wife says to her husband, dressed to go for a bike ride, "Cycling season's over, where are you going?" "Why, to train for next season, of course."
Lift a glass to our many seasons.