A few days ago I almost left you a note reading, "THIS BLOG IS ON HIATUS WHILE DAWN PRACTICES NOT WRITING ANYTHING AT ALL," and I'm not even kidding. However, I persevered, despite gloominess and anxiety, because not writing anything at all was not the answer to anything at all. Thus, you received quotations and flippancy. Thank you for your patience with that.
Yesterday I split some firewood, and dug in the dirt, and planted some garlic, and packed up some dried mushrooms, and packed up some dried dill, and in short tried to find a physical space in this autumn world that might compensate for the intellectual limp I've acquired. Little Ruckus lifted my spirits by enthusiastically jumping into a bathtub full of water, and then jumping out again and immediately staring into space as if it had been no big deal, and now he had something important on his mind, and he had planned to wash his paws anyway.
Otherwise, this is what I am doing: rereading Colm Toibin's melancholy story collection Mothers and Sons, running in the woods, listening to a woodpecker, picking the last few cherry tomatoes, stacking firewood, letting the cat in, letting the dog out, letting the cat out, letting the cat and dog in, mulching my garlic bed, driving high schoolers back and forth, listening to baseball on the radio, watching a JV soccer game, not writing any poems, not writing anything other than writing this.