February 18, 2015

Woke from vivid dreams. I had taken S to Ireland, to Sligo. He wasn’t interested in the old buildings and wild places I was trying to show him, but rather in the posh shopping malls (of which there are none in real life). The dream was not about disappointment, though, but about my deciding I’d rather be with him than with the things I’d formerly loved.

Class was in fact cancelled yesterday, and I made huge headway in my New York tourist play. Time coupled with the good news from Omaha lit the fires back up again. Too much disappointment silences me; a little encouragement tunes me to singing.

Convinced by an Internet article that I had COPD (I certainly have a number of the symptoms), I went through the ice fields to the Racquet Club, ran hard on the Elliptical, did weights, sat in the steam room. I felt terrific after the work-out, which the article led me to believe I would not do if I had COPD. Reminds me after my heart surgery, if I had a twinge or tightness in the chest, I refused to be afraid or apprehensive, but would go running, deciding that it would either go away or kill me. It always has gone away. As far as that goes, I believe, on the evidence of a coughless, no cloudiness of the throat morning, the long ague may be abating, or even gone. Moments like these make me understand I am hopelessly mythopoeic. I do not spontaneously believe that natural forces are at work in my life, but rather spirits, gods, who are to be questioned when things go wrong and blessed when they go right. The second part of that is well.