April 9, 2013

Philippe Jaroussky on Spotify.

Threw my undershirt on the floor at bed last night; this morning mistook the polo player embroidered on it for a dead spider. Minutes spent overcoming my aversion enough to pick it up.

Evening with Dalton and Jon at the café. Much gossip. Their obsession with a troublesome friend named Richard makes me wish I had been more troublesome. Or more efficiently troublesome.

Dream that my niece Bekka, who had been staying at a dormitory in a roadside service station, had been accused of leaving during the night with a mechanic or local of some kind. It’s not clear whether an actual crime was involved, but it seemed like we spent hours trying to recreate the scene. Bekka and her friend were there, “helping,” but we didn’t know if they were helping or misleading. Woke feeling especially useless and unfulfilled, though I can’t see how that’s related to the dream

Keeping up with a-poem-a-day through April, though there seems to be no time to transcribe them out of my golden notebook.

Probing for some way to put an end to the flea-bites, to the incidental obligations, which, however tiny, devour whole days.