This has been a rough week peppered with many small unkindnesses, but my mantra is I am not unhappy, though I wonder why I cannot simply say I am happy. I dreamt I was a diabetic & had to check my blood sugar every twenty minutes. I dreamt I had a poetry reading & there was no audience & I just read poems aloud to an empty space. The show must go on. These dreams lack panache & so do I.
I have finally begun writing new pieces, though it feels something like a slow recovery from sickness, each tiny bit requiring more effort than I remember. Everything is running in fast-forward these days & the people are blurry & I find it hard not to let things like the flavor of good tea to slip past my notice. Time moves faster in some places & slower in others. My good days remain slippery & brief. I suspect this phenomenon is universal.
I would like to have a week to myself, where I do nothing but read & cook. I wish there were time to withdraw from the world for a short spell. I am tired of the word frantic, of the arthritis in my fingers, of the telephone & the doorbell & the bank & the post office & the dust that gathers on headboards & chair rails.
According to my horoscope I am subject to allergic reactions. Also: the stars are aligned for professional success. Unfortunately, I am allergic to success. And professionalism. Alas.
A Body of Work
13 hours ago