The Week that Was…Sleepy

Charlie, Taking an Evening Nap

I have been taking a lot of naps, this past week. I also have not slept well during the night. Not sure which is the cause, and which is the effect. Sunday evening, I went to bed before nine o’clock and fell asleep directly. While I did wake up around two o’clock in the morning, I managed to sleep again until eight-thirty, when Al woke me.

The weather has been quite warm, this week. For a while it looked as though there would be snow accumulation by bedtime, but I don’t think it ever got cold enough. Mostly, there was light rain to help melt away the edges of the remaining snowbanks around the yard. Except for the north side of the garden shed, where because the sun never hits that side, the ice keeping the door from opening is the last to melt away in the spring.

I have been concentrating on not concentrating on anything other than chores and minding my diet. Saw the dentist, last Wednesday, and have to go in next week for fitting the crown and taking filling a small cavity. The numbness is only now fading from the local anesthetic. May try having the cavity filled without using the topical or local, since the cavity is small. Goes much better when it can be managed.

Tonight I am up late, once again. Reading, this time. The Provence Cure for the Brokenhearted, a change of pace, having reread The Others series (Anne Bishop) from beginning through Lake Silence.

Too much to think about, the lot of it distracting me, when I would rather relax and recuperate. And so I seem to be managing that. My last BG reading was in the 90s, BP 109/61, and my blood oxygen level is at 97% and holding up without breathing exercises, for a change. I even spent twenty minutes or so on the elliptical machine, this morning. (That would be Monday morning.) The day blends into the next without my noticing. Before I married, when I started freelance editing/writing, I would sleep when tired, work when not, and eat when I remembered to do so. Totally unstructured. It was so much easier, all boundaries but the walls, floor and ceiling of the apartment and contents seeming amorphous.

As during my college years. I wonder if I will attend the 50th class reunion events, come autumn. I floated through those years, also, and many years after. Unstructured. Absorbing. Writing poetry, constructing crossword puzzles, journaling…reading everything and playing the piano a lot. I think I didn’t pay attention. Not to the outside.

I ask myself if I would change that, were I able. And I think not. I have arrived here, and I like it.

I will like it if I go to sleep before two o’clock. That would be about twelve hours since I started writing this post.

Good night!

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Wednesday Afternoon’s Flowers

This has been an altogether wonderful day. It’s a bit chilly, outside. After all that was necessary, the Scampers decided to rest a while, midmorning, and then fell asleep. Didn’t wake up again until Noon. So, trapped in my chair, my puppy being on my lap, I reread Intrigues by Mercedes Lackey, which was on my telephone Nook-Book reader.

In the afternoon, I made out my food diary for the day to that point. We went shopping for odds and ends and came back with a tuna steak, two or three tubes of caulking, peppercorns and cayenne pepper. (I must empty the cupboard of the very old herbs and spices. Neither Al nor I can find what we want, anymore.) Cooked the peppercorns in olive oil and butter, and then put the tuna into the frying pan on top of that with the kosher salt and the cayenne pepper.

Al’s enjoying his summer project, building his woodworking shop in the back yard. I am reading some chapters in a book on bereavement theory loaned to me by my grief counselor. It’s a nice break from poetry and routines. We have decided to meet at least one more time. That will be at the beginning of June.

I am looking forward to flowers growing in my wildflower garden, this year, having pulled up the White Campions that rode in with the loads of dirt banked around the house, the same summer that the egress window was installed. The rabbits ate a lot of the tulip leaves before the flowers opened; I am glad that we got lush grass, which they prefer, before we lost any of the plants.

Best wishes!

End of January

Our weather, this week, was nicely warm. Today, however, was more chilly and crust formed over the remaining snow (which still is more than ankle deep). I made a gesture toward firming a path from the back door to the gazebo. If the week is sunny, I will take the laptop to the gazebo for a while each sunny afternoon to be able to spend my writing time out of doors.

I am quite tired of being ill, and I am sure that being out of doors will help me to regain my equilibrium and blow away some of the clouds in my brain.

In fun news, a friend thearanartisan.com and I enjoyed tossing haiku back and forth on her FB page, Friday night. I have consolidated our haiku in order here with a link to her WordPress site. And also to RonovanWrites, whose haiku challenge #81 got us started.

Beginning the third week, this week, of the Prose Poetry workshop under the guidance of Pam Casto. Fascinating stuff. I find that there are genre as well as literary pieces within prose poetry and that my interest in them divides along genre lines as well as (my perceived) quality of the writing.

I realize that some of the books I most enjoy are prose poems, almost front end to back. For example, William Least Heat-Moon’s PrairyErth: A Deep Map, a favorite of mine. I think also of the introductory chapter of Ivanhoe, which I admit to not having reread since shortly after college. (I first read it in late grade school or junior high, either before or just after Quentin Durward). Helen Saunders, my English instructor for the class on that particular period of English literature, was aghast at my statement that I did truly enjoy the writing style.

It seems fortunate, here in my 70th year, that I read nearly all of the “great literature” that ¬†was assigned in college before I turned 18. The older I get, the less time I am likely to allot to any one piece of literature, and the shorter the reading segments for nonfiction (e.g., Francis Fukuyama’s “Political Order” books). Forty-five minutes or an hour here and there to read a cozy mystery or historical romance just for fun is not a great amount of time lost. I’ve become a lot more choosy about speculative fiction, quite often choosing to reread favorite series rather than spend time with new books that are not quite at the highest level of gratification. Often I find myself writing, instead. Or thinking…while petting the puppy dog in my lap.