March 14, 2014

Some mass for the soul of Dufay on the CD.

My cold lapsed yesterday and I was, thinking back on it, a ball of fire. I put together a book of poems, began a rewrite of Night, Sleep, made a short story out of a chapter of it, got a haircut, studied my lines, finished my lecture on myth for Monday, finished the power-point to go with it-- though I have no confidence that the last of that will work. Rick Chess helped me through my surprising ignorance of how that sort of thing works. The new cleaning lady came, and her passing, except that everything was cleaner, was undetectable, so that was well. The mouth of anguish opened in the first of morning, but closed almost immediately. I neither know nor will try to puzzle out why. The great Lord makes himself almost daily my enemy, and less than that, but better, my friend. Neither can that be puzzled out.