So about that new bedroom furniture for Hannah: I'm not going to actually write about how it's going. Mostly because there has been no difference in her bedtime behavior, so it is really uninteresting.
Sometimes I get tired of my own blathering on. Of course, just because I'm tired of it doesn't mean I stop. I sometimes find myself still talking several seconds after I realized I'm not actually saying anything. I'm like a machine that has to complete the articulation of the task it's built to do, whether or not that task has any value.
I recently read The Invention of Hugo Cabret. I heard a story about it on NPR, and figured I could just about manage some children's fiction, as long as nothing too traumatic happens in it. It looks really long, but there are a lot of pictures, so I figure it actually took about 4 hours to read, all told. Hugo Cabret is a boy who is trying to repair an automaton that his father found in the attic of a museum before he died. At the end of the book, there are some acknowledgements that reference some actual automata, give some web addresses that are cool, and variously talk about the factual elements of the story. So I looked them up. There are several videos of the restored automata, and a discussion of how when one was found, the pen it was built to hold was missing.
(here's where I segue back to what I was talking about)
I sometimes find that I'm working really hard to get to a point that doesn't exist. I'm like that automaton with the missing pen: endlessly executing a sequence of motions, with nothing to interpret them. Somewhere in my head, I think what I'm doing makes sense, but there is no outward expression of whatever it is that I'm trying to express.