Monday, August 23, 2021

The fog is extreme this morning, a quilt of wet cloud, and meanwhile the cicadas chirp without cease, as if I'm surrounded by miniature car alarms that no one will turn off. But that's just the insomnia talking. I woke up at three making lists in my head of every piece of broken infrastructure in this house . . . and then when I finally did fall asleep all I dreamed about was illegal dumping and trying to sneak the cat on to a school bus. Oy.

Well, happy Monday. Things can only go up. And yesterday (before the 3 a.m. lists) did turn out to be unexpectedly productive: I spent the downpouring afternoon in my study, reading the Iliad and scribbling notes for Teresa . . . no thoughts of gardening or housework, just me and a fat book.

Today: back to editing and class planning. More rainstorms are headed our way, and the air is as thick as Crisco, but the tomato plants are bursting with happiness.

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