I slept so hard last night that I'm staggering around this morning like a drunk. It was the cool air that zonked me: such a sweet night for sleeping under an open window.
Yesterday I did finish moving the old woodpile into the basement, so that may have contributed to my pleasant weariness. Moving firewood is basically weight lifting, with squats built in. Today I have to stack the cellar pile, and tomorrow Tom and I need to get started on the green pile in the driveway. So I will be firewood-tired for a few days to come.
I also did write a first draft of a new poem, which turned out to be a conversation with the Iliad, so that was exciting. I have a hard time loving the Iliad, because I have a hard time concentrating on the litany of death: so-and-so from Troy is speared in the groin by so-and-so of the Greeks; so-and-so of the Greeks falls from his chariot and is crushed by a stone by so-and-so from Troy. And yet, of course, the weight and tedium of these litanies hold terrible power because they enact the weight and tedium of battle. Despite my struggle to concentrate as a reader, the poem does its work on me.
Today I've got some class prep to do, plus the aforementioned firewood, plus grocery shopping because Tom and I are having a little dinner party with our neighbor on Saturday evening. Tom's going to grill lamb kidneys (from the magnificent lamb we bought from our friend Amber's sheep farm) along with various garden vegetables, and I'm going to make salsa and pita and a lemon tart.
I also hope to do some revision on my Iliad draft, and to read more of the actual Iliad, and to endure my exercise class, and to mow grass, and no doubt this list will stretch much longer as I think of all of the other things I could be doing too . . .
Even when I'm not getting paid for anything, I somehow seem to cram my days full of activity. I wonder if that's good or bad.