Fluff

I'm housesitting in the East Bay for a couple of weeks (a "writing" vacation away from shrieking cockatiels and other distractions) and the place has a darling garden full of flowers and trees (and birds and bees). I've been sitting in the studio behind the garden where the computers are, trying to work on my final tweaks to the fuel source in Under Galga, smelling this gorgeous jasmine that drapes the entire fence along the right side, just outside the studio door.

As I stare at the page and jump over to Google and skip back over to read more Capital Hill, I realize I really can't think. My head is full of fluff and I can't concentrate. Not that this is an entirely unprecedented state for me, but I've been having more trouble than usual getting myself to actually write two words in the novel. It finally dawns on me as I wait for some laundry to fluff to get the wrinkles out before I fold it that my head is thick with jasmine scent. To which I am having an allergic reaction.

This makes me sad. I love the smell of jasmine. Why is it that something I adore has to be on the list of things that hurt me? Moments ago, I cleaned the fluff out of the dryer lint trap, and I thought, yeah...that's the stuff in my head. If only I had a lint trap.

Ah, well. At least I can soak in the hot tub later.