I am behind on all things pertaining to life. For example, artificial Christmas tree needles still litter the living room carpet. The thought of going to a reading or calling a friend tonight seems blasphemous. I feel guilty when I'm not writing. And I've been writing a lot, and loving it. Writing and enjoying it because it's something that I do. It's something that I have to do, but I want to do it.
I wish I had my notes for one of the essays that I'm working on. I'm at the Kansas Union watching something that looks white like snow but might be rain fall on the campus. My eyes are level with the Spencer Museum of Art's roof. I am by the window, the only way I could have it on this day of stress and not-writing--yet. Little things added up today, an accumulation of student requests, emails, and future concerns. I woke up this morning with dreams of pet ponies (indoors) and utter failure in front of my students. Those dreams set the tone for the day, and the pet pony was not pleasant. It leaned over the couch to eat out of your hand. It stood on the bed.
Snickers was missing again this morning. And then I found her buried under my covers. She burrowed into her own hole, as she's done several times lately. She was warm, and stretched when I touched her back.
I need oxygen and water. I fear the eczema is coming back.
Tomorrow, a revival of breath and the living.
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