the boy finds an old math workbook with some pages unfinished, and he wants to read it. The man sleeps, weary with too many late nights. The girl finished her homework and is weaving on the loom I set up for her, some combination of yarn with bright green and pink bumps that float like confetti above the raspberry and purple. She weaves in the window. He calculates in pencil, on the couch. The sun sets pink over the harbor. Dinner roasts in the oven. I don’t need to tell you how rare the moment is…
While reading James Agee, I scratch some gritty substance on my forehead and find the ashes from the noon church service, appropriate to my reading.
My academic/critical thesis became joyful. (Was that a week ago already?) It needs another serious edit (elegant-ish ideas with less-than-elegant construction), but the requirement is fulfilled.
I took Madeleine to New York, a lovely visit for the weekend.
Now: pull together drafts of stories for my creative thesis (100 pages), make notes on yet MORE books (six books left to read in the next month? Or five-and-a-half?) And I need to keep writing! I probably need to apply for that teaching job next fall, but I’m swamped with the present, and torn about what I want my life to look like.
This afternoon and evening will be busier, more normal, dinner thrown together on the fly. Good day yesterday, though, truly. I could use more miraculously quiet evenings—but I won’t count on them. They come when they come.