Excellent car news: $48 for repairing a loose heat shield, not the $1,000 for a new exhaust system that I was dreading. But, gosh, those loose heat shields sure do make alarming noises.
So the day went according to plan: garage visiting, copyediting, ms reading, Iliad talking, prompt writing. Today, more of the same, except with garage visiting erased and voting and a zoom meeting penciled in.
I'm still keeping my dream record, and I'm noticing that I really don't seem to dream about being a writer or reading books. I often have to drive in bad situations, I visit many different places, I am responsible for feeding people and/or animals and solving crimes, and I seem to socialize with a wide variety of people (Obama, Uncle Bob, my children as babies, mysterious Germans). But no books.
Perhaps dreams are more like being a character in a book. Maybe I don't need stories because I'm always inside one.
I have to say that I'm relieved to have finished the Iliad. It was massive and shattering and marvelous and terrible; but as Teresa and I decided yesterday, its main character is Slaughter, and he is hard to face.
So now I'm retrenching into more human fare: a Margaret Drabble novel, Alice Oswald's poems. Strange how that almost feels cowardly, but why?