He who writes fast shall write fastest in the morning. Nothing is more exciting than having to generate text by such and such a time. My head feels like somebody struck its lower left - right there at the base - quadrant (quadrant!) with a ballpeen hammer. I don't even know what a ballpeen hammer is.
Last night I dreamed of artifical gems - piles of them - and of the games I could play if I brought them home. Then how those games would grow old and there would be fake gems everywhere and what would anyone want with them then. What is a better game? What is better stuff?
Over the weekend I saw a bear galloping - that's how they look - as if their bodies are sliding beneath thick black coats. Then yesterday beneath a pine tree shredded honey comb. Yet no tracks. Well, maybe a crow?
In the forest the snow is still heavy, a fact that amazed the woman from Amherst who teaches psychotherapy using horses. Later the idea of congruence - when how we act and how we feel are in harmony. Horses don't fake it, she said. What to make then of the fact that Lily the spotted draft skitted when I leaned in to kiss her. Though she loved Jeremiah, almost kneeling in the muddy snow to nuzzle his small open hand.
The brook more like a river though "full spate" is still the wrong words. Talking pleasantly on the same day to neighbors with whom I've argued over how they don't properly constrain their dogs. You think the snow will never leave and then it does. The first cup of coffee of the day is always the only one that's worth drinking, but the cup in the afternoon is medicinal.
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