Last night--

Dreamed I was a yellow transparent stone on a beach but also a French peasant in period costume.

Listened to the Rays pitch around Dustin Pedroia to get to Papi, which was a dreadful turn of events, and I hate to think of Papi tossing and turning in his bed, asking himself, "Am I washed up?"

Also dreamed of playing the violin, but that kind of dream is more akin to muscle-memory than imagination. I guess maybe I should get the instrument out of its case and do what my fingers are nagging me to do.

Today--

Another poetry round for Beloit. Listening so hard to poems is very, very tiring. And yet, the more we listen, the more we stay the the same, n'est-ce pas?

by Christine de Pisan, 14th century

[I don't know the translator, and I don't remember where I found this]

It is a month today

Since my lover went away.

My heart remains gloomy and silent;

It is a month today.

"Farewell," he said, "I am leaving."

Since then he speaks to me no more.

It is a month today.