April 5, 2024

Quite cold, a look back into winter. Clouds out my upstairs window: it was brilliant at the beach. I’m home now, and not liking it. The vacation was brief but glorious, a renewal, a deep breath, and being back is not setting well– returned to my shoes stuck in the same pool of mud, me tugging away. Drive uneventful except, again, for long traffic jams. Standing on the pier last night I realized there is no particular reason (except for the bother of getting there) why I can’t live at the beach.

Maud did not patter out to greet, and then scold me for going away. Grief. 

Phone call to my old UNCA number from people who want to feature A Childhood in the Milky Way at a book fair in Los Angeles. What sounded a delightful surprise turned out to be, of course, a scam to get me to pay them money. The voice on the phone wavered when I told them the book is thirty years old. They didn’t do much research. Five calls after I hung up on them. I wonder why nice things can’t actually be nice once in a while. 

The radio program that bored me on the journey is now playing downstairs. All the PBS station must buy from the same list.