Something resembling sickness drops me into sleep around 8 p.m. and I wake up twice to dreams of a particular but not distressing failure. Nor can I discern now: paragraphs or sentences or what. Well, at 5 a.m. I stumble outside with the dog, still hunched over, still wishing I was in bed and dreaming.
My father thumps me hard on the back, a reminder of how strong he was, and is, and all the years testify. Jesus died on a cross and his body was eaten by dogs. How happy I was in the co-op last night, buying butter and flour and cheese, and how little there was to say!
Thus tea, a small bowl of cereal and - yes - material for teaching which one reads late, but hopefully not too late. The sentence looks to the image while the paragraph anticipates discourse? You can say anything and believe it, maybe.
Maple leaves pasted to the grass, chrysanthemums dying despite being move to the shed and the requisite geese moving faster than usual. In south Worthington the other day I pulled over driving to watch somebody's flock of pigeons imitate a falling veil, a windblown curtain. We find our way by stars, and sometimes our stars are other people.
The dog waits patiently for me to go back inside which sooner or later I do. Everyone sleeps beyond what's regular, and I pad around the house quietly, feeble but attentive, enjoying the brief monasticism. Illusions abound to no real effect which is to say there is only ever one thing.
Certain questions I have yet to answer, as certain approaches to kissing have yet to be opened, yet to be loosened. The kids laughed when I said I woke up at two a.m to go see the moonlight on frost but I was teaching in that moment and honesty matters else nobody will remember. The world's gifts multiply but all most of us do is face off with another screen.
It's what then, Wednesday? It's cold where I write, where I am nearly finished writing, unsure if I said what was given me to say.