Today, if it stops being cloudy and raw, I will plant garlic and transplant kale into the greenhouse. Possibly I will write some more. I'm at a scary part of the Phaeton poem, when the boy loses control of the Sun's chariot, and it's easy to find something less fraught to do than detail a celestial car accident. This sounds flippant, but in fact immersing myself into these situations is very unpleasant. I can do it, I want to do it, I have to do it, I'm in the zone, but I don't like it. This is why writing is not therapy.
Dinner tonight: variety small pizzas decorated with various garden gleanings; spinach and lettuce salad; ice cream from the store because I'm just not in the mood to make another pie.