Is Mercury in retrograde?

I feel strange, and unproductive.  Not sad, exactly, but anxious about letting go.  My day is over, though –– no hope for finishing one last manuscript tonight –– so I’m attempting to sooth myself to sleep by thinking of things simple and beautiful to me right now: Bemelman’s Bar, pajama t-shirts, Shlomo Carlebach whistling, the ocean (the Surf Hotel on Block Island!), blissfully long airplane rides, the sound of typing, Vladimir Nabokov, e.g.:

“Her painted eyelids were closed.  A tear of no particular meaning gemmed in the hard top of her cheek.  Nobody could tell what went on in that little head.  Waves of desire rippled there, a recent lover fell back into a swoon, hygienic doubts were raised and dismissed, contempt for everyone but herself advertised with a flush of warmth its constant presence, here it is, cried what’s her name squatting quickly.  My darling, dushka moya…”

The smell of straight vanilla extract, listening to children speak French, bouquets of hydrangeas, worry dolls, hot whiskey drinks, and Shel Silverstein’s picture of love.

It was love at first sight for Belinda and Benjamin Box.

Remind me to tell you tomorrow what my new dream job is.



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