I woke up with a little cold--tiny sore throat, sour mouth, both very minor, definitely not Covid, not nearly severe enough to cancel class for, presumably linked to travel and being overtired, will probably be gone by tomorrow when I have to teach: but still, they're just one more blah to add to the chain of blah. I've been trying to hype my enthusiasm about driving three hours this afternoon in my great "new" car--new brakes, new rocker panels, and now a fabulous new exhaust system and shiny new catalytic converter--but my enthusiasm is not falling for the hype. No surprise, but I do need to snap myself out of this state of mind and refocus myself on my work.

What I really mean is refocus myself on different work because I've been completely absorbed in writing a very painful essay-memoir about Ray and our times--painful because it's been complicated to write, painful because it's been like picking a scab. But it's done now, I think. It it took me into some shadowy places. It had to be written. And now it is sitting on my desktop asking, "What next?"

I have no answer to that yet. What I have is a tiny sore throat and a sour mouth, a day of obligation and driving, the fear that I will never again sleep purely and simply.

But I'll go for a walk this morning. I'll figure things out--figure something out, or let the breeze do it for me . . . watch a bird or two, watch a dog, maybe begin to watch myself.