Firefly psychologist

My open-ended sabbatical is wonderful. But I need to start mimicking the structure of work - the last few years of wage-slavery have taken their toll on my ability to force myself to write without deadlines (actually, I always sort of sucked at that). Thus the "Not Savage Times" blog - until I get a full-time job, I'm forcing myself to post five times a week. And post the number of words I've written on the novel since the last post. Come rain or shine. I should be able to do this.

Just had an evening run in Prospect Park. After I was done, I walked around the park again, to look at fireflies. They really are everything that's right in the world - sort of plain and generically bug-like on the outside, and then light up unexpectedly. Was standing in the dusk watching them through the trees, loving their randomness and hearing in my inner ear J.M. Barrie children in white frilly dresses sing-songing "I believe in fairies" as they clapped their hands and danced about in their newly polished black leather shoes. So it didn't seem odd at all when a small, white-bearded man in a grey top hat walked up to me on the knoll. "They're lovely, aren't they?" I said. "Yes," he said, and asked "Vhat is your profession?" in an Austrian or Yiddish accent. "I'm a writer," I replied, asking him what he did. "I'm a psychologist," he said, which shouldn't surprise me and didn't. "You're a writer... Where? In zee books, or in freelancing?". "I write fiction," I said, "slowly." His top hat was grey and it looked as if he'd duct-taped some new fabric to it -perhaps it's wearing out and he doesn't want to throw it away. A good hat is hard to find. There was a dent on the nub of his nose - as if he'd rub it there when he was thinking. "You are an artistic voman," he said, and I smiled. "God Bless you," he added and I tilted my head, said "You too" and walked home.