Tuesday, November 26, 2013


Now is the time that challenge a hearty walker's mettle. When I look out the window, I see very bundled up people rushing down the wintry (although we do have a couple of weeks to go) street. It's a comfortable 40 degrees out and the rain isn't here yet. I do need to get out but I am being productive in the job search/organization world, so perhaps I will just brave the rain later. I mean, I have a slicker and everything, so why not?

I'm treating myself to an afternoon cup of coffee, something I rarely do at home. Perhaps it is the passing of MR, or just that many of that family circle have been in touch these last few days, but I have been a bit more philosophically or spiritually inclined the past couple of days … or maybe it is just the Rumi in the bathroom where I peruse it from time to time. 

Last year, I never got around to making a list of resolutions. This year, I am starting now. I usually make the resolution to read a book a week (and generally make that goal, although that includes audiobooks, kids' books, and graphic novels. In 2014, I resolve to watch more foreign films. I mean, can't I find the time, in all my media watching, to stop whatever else I am doing (I generally multi-task with knitting or paperwork or beading or something) so that I can read subtitles and pay closer attention. 

So, the theme of next year is Slow Down, Make Progress. I sat with Cooder today and just had a pet with her, but I don't do that every day. And I should. Just as I need to continue to find that 30 minutes to walk every day (or close to it). 

So, before you start thinking that I should think more about work goals and resolutions, I am, but just not in a formulated plan quite yet, or steps, whisper or otherwise. Actually that should be whisker goals.


Self-kudos? I managed a 40-minute walk in the dark and the rain … and I had forgotten my gloves, so cold hands, too.

So, got an email from LD … who lost some peeps this week. Made her think of larnin' her Emily Dickinson in high school and it is a worthwhile poem at this point in time

Because I could not stop for Death (712)

by Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death – 
He kindly stopped for me –  
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –  
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility – 

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –  
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –  
We passed the Setting Sun – 

Or rather – He passed us – 
The Dews drew quivering and chill – 
For only Gossamer, my Gown – 
My Tippet – only Tulle – 

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground – 
The Roof was scarcely visible – 
The Cornice – in the Ground – 

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads 
Were toward Eternity – 

- See more

Monday, November 25, 2013


Hot milk sponge cake. I kept dreaming that I was trying to make a hot milk sponge cake for my mother's 87th birthday (coming up). I was at my sister's house (and that, too, is highly unlikely) and I needed to look up the rest of the recipe on line. My niece's computer would only give me references and links to history and ancestry (my niece is a born-again Mormon and has researched ways to get some of us into heaven with her). But hot milk sponge cake? And anxiety about it … I'll have to ponder that one.

I didn't even report on the first snow which we had a week or so ago. My mother was surprised when I mentioned it to her a couple of days later, because, evidently, for years I have called her on the morning of the first snow. It hasn't snowed again, but it is really cold, all of 27 degrees last night. I called M, as has been our Sunday evening habit for many years now and re-instituted now that I am away, and it was 21 degrees in Brewster. And 8 in Schroon Lake. I walked over to John and Melinda's to watch the last episode of Boardwalk Empire and did not find it too terrible, and at least it was still dry.

And so goes the day of looking at postings on job boards. It is not an activity that cheers one up, particularly. But one does it anyway. One does it.

Our extended family of friends, the one that stretches back to Southern California lost a partner/wife over the weekend. I knew MR, only vaguely. I've known her partner/husband ST since I was about 10 or 11. ST was a closer friend of my brother David, although ST was another who ended up in Santa Cruz based on my enthusiasm. At any rate, the ripples of shock and sadness lapped up here yesterday when I got a rare email from David, who specifically mentioned the Rumi poem from last week. 

I've posted this too many times, and too recently, I know, but I feel compelled to honor MR and ST with Mr. Stafford's poem, as it is a talisman of words for me. Read it again for Charlotte and Scott and MR and ST and Mary V and for all of us near and far who love or like and/or respect and appreciation one another.

A Ritual To Read To Each Other

If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider--
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give--yes or no, or maybe--
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep. 
Life cycle of a leaf. I didn't take this and don't know who did.

Friday, November 22, 2013


This morning, while quite truly stumbling around for hot water and honey and a cup of coffee, B2 said "Don't miss Rumi this morning."

I've been trying to sort through a lot of conflicting emotions about all kinds of things today. I sent this email to someone: 

There are a lot of things at play for me right now, more than I have written about.

I'm fighting a river of depression that spreads out in an alluvial plain, kind of eddying around inertia and defeat. I'd say my head is above water, but it is threatening flood all the time. (I just watched a documentary about New Orleans, can you tell?) The other night, while struggling to quell the dementors, I came to think of myself as particle board, glued-together shards of something that once had integrity, made into something disposable, negligible, and nearly worthless.

This is probably more information than you want, and more dramatic, but this is my day-to-day, night-hours-upon-night-hours state. 

Meanwhile, finding that my regular gig might not be so regular and that money I had counted on to get me through is not going to be there. But at least now I know.

So, on to laundry but before that I stopped and read the Rumi for the day.


This being human is a guest house.
Every morning is a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all.
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks

Now, I might not subscribe to the whole of this, but it does give some perspective and something to chew on during the laundry cycles and beyond.


Indeed, I must admit to tipsiness. 'Twas the meeting of a reduced version of the Kermit Place Readers discussing the second half of the second volume of Proust. There were only four of us instead of the usual seven. We had a most terrific time and, of course, as is our wont, drank some wine. But we had a lovely time reading passages aloud and comparing texts as we did not all read out of the same translation. Proust is, indeed, a lifetime undertaking and utterly worth a long time of study. Not something you read for narrative, but a different kind of narrative experience altogether.

On a more personal front, still fighting the dementors.

Emmylou in excelsis.

Yes, and on top of that had a profound and sad discussion with my 87-year old mother. Well, yes it was about aging, and vulnerability, and pain, and perceptions, and needs, and accepting or rejecting the reality of one's particular state. Yes, that and more. And that will have to be enough for now. I need to … yes … sleep.

The Nothing of Roselight

Death comes, and what we thought
we needed loses importance.

The living shiver, focused
on a muscular dark hand,
rather than the glowing cup it holds
or the toast being proposed.

In that same way love enters
your life, and the I, the ego
a corrupt, self-absorbed king,
dies during the night.

Let him go.
Breathe the cold new air, 
the nothing of rose light.
— Rumi, trans. Coleman Barks

Wednesday, November 20, 2013


It is a truth universally acknowledged that I am kind of music junkie and once I am on a tear, abandon hope. 

I did manage to read last night and not watch the Kate McGarrigle tribute. But today I popped in the DVD of IT MIGHT GET LOUD. I just made myself turn it off as I was watching it the second time through with production comments. I e-chatted with my 17-year old grand-niece, CF, who is a big music fan and loves the movie that I wanted to have it tattooed to myself. Be still my heart. 

In the film, there's a scene with the Raconteurs onstage where you're bleeding during your solo on "Blue Veins."
Jack White: It just shows the idea about passion and pushing really hard and making things harder on yourself. You can stand still and play politely and still get paid at the end of the night. If you don't push yourself, you're not going anywhere.

I've mentioned this before. I'm not a musician. I can't read music nor play anything. I can't even sing anymore. But I am so fascinated and moved by music and musicians and the delicacies, intricacies, and nuances of music and the sonic narratives that are songs (or other pieces of music), I cannot get enough. There aren't very many people of my acquaintance (thankfully, there are some) who want to listen to Aretha sing "I Say a Little Prayer" and focus solely on her piano playing or her breathing for emphasis, etc. And then listen more to just enjoy that art.

So watching analysis, passion, and mastery, which this film is all about, is more than my cup of tea, it's di Fara's pizza or a meal at Lupa, only it lasts longer, is not expensive, and won't make me any fatter.

I need to get to Proust and then get to sleep. I had insomnia last night, got up and ate too many 'Nilla Wafers and then slept too late. M sent me an article about insomnia and depression from today's New York Times. 

“It makes good common sense clinically,” she continued. “If you have a depression, you’re often awake all night, it’s extremely lonely, it’s dark, you’re aware every moment that the world around you is sleeping, every concern you have is magnified.”

Um … yeah. Sometimes I am not the best nighttime company. And, you know, I could have just taken a precautionary sleeping med. Well, be all those things as they may, I was able to get some productivity out of myself. Even took the subway to the Brooklyn Trader Joe's and did some walking. 

The afternoon light on downtown Brooklyn.

B2 has a cool book in the bathroom, A Year with Rumi: Daily Readings, translated and curated by Coleman Barks. I've always liked Rumi, although he seems too good to have been true. This particular poem was for April 15th but had been dog-eared.


There are many guises for intelligence.
One part of you is gliding in a high wind stream,
while your more ordinary notions
take little steps and peck at the ground.

Conventional knowledge is death to our souls,
and it is not really ours. It is laid on.
Yet we keep saying we find "rest" in these "beliefs".

We must become ignorant of what we have been taught
and be instead bewildered.

Run from what is profitable and comfortable.
Distrust anyone who praises you.
Give your investment money, and the interest
on the capital, to those who are actually destitute.

Forget safety. Live where you hear to live.
Destroy your reputation. Be notorious.
I have tried prudent planning long enough.
From now on, I'll be mad.

Yes, bewildered as well as bewitched and bothered, but not in any good way. I am not even espousing these words, I just found them interesting and I am, more than indeed, bewildered with little hope or expectation of things turning out okay.

Tuesday, November 19, 2013


I should just admit this outright, I don't always know what cats want. Cooder slept way in this morning, happily and comfortably ensconced on her silk down pillow on the newly installed chair. Since she finally deigned to enter the world of the moving, she has been restless. Yes, there have been Greenies. And more Greenies. But could the gentle (yet incessant) scratching be a request for even MORE Greenies?

This was a post I began a few days ago, so I was kind of trying to write. Cooder is, of course, still in search of Greenies, although right now she's having some water. Emmylou just jumped into the just cleaned litter box. Oh, the simple joys.

I still have twenty pages or so of Proust to read tonight and it is 10:45 so I should get to it. Still battling the dementors and sidekicks, overeating and avoidance napping,(although my nap was very short, ending when the carillon recording did My Country 'Tis of Thee and The Lord Bless and Keep You).

My mother and I had a wide ranging conversation this afternoon about friendship, generosity, kindness, disappointment, and expectations, among other things. Subsequent to that, came across this related, if tangential, Proust musing on the subject of expectation, albeit expectation in a different context.

But it is not thus, in the bustle of daily life, with every true happiness, with every great sorrow? In a room full of other people we receive from the woman we love the answer, auspicious or fatal, which we have been awaiting for the last year. But we must go on talking, ideas come flocking one after another, unfolding a smooth surface which is pricked now and then at the very most by a dull throb from the memory, infinitely more profound but very narrow, that misfortune has come upon us. If, instead of misfortune, it is happiness, it may be that not until many years have elapsed will we recall that the most important event in our emotional life occurred without our having time to give it any prolonged attention, or ever to become aware of it almost, at a social gathering to which we had gone solely in the expectation of the event.

Trees reaching out in hope or expectation?

I've been watching a DVD, New Orleans Music in Exile, that I got from the library. I have some new musicians to check out. I am groovin' to Papa Mali. I can see why he hooked up with Bill Kreutzmann, formerly of the Grateful Dead, although I thought he was too deaf to play any more. And although I should go to sleep and read Proust, I just might watch a bit of Sing Me Songs That Say I Love You: A Concert for Kate McGarrigle on Netflix.


America the Beautiful. That's the carillion recording coming across the street from the church for the six o'clock ringing. Now we have moved on to The Battle Hymn of the Republic. These songs are dangerous as they can get stuck in your head. I think it will end soon. I hope it will end soon. Yes. Only five minutes. I could probably sleep through that if I were napping ... and I worked hard today to avoid inactivity and stasis.

I fought off an avoidance nap today with a walk around the 'hood and some reading in the park.The park was nothing short of splendid. I am battling the demons a bit, so I just forced myself away from the table and the bed and went to the park to work on Proust. (118 pages to read in three days.) I sat under a tree with the window blowing through the leaves for quite some time. The air was crisp, sharp, and mild. 

The park was spectacular and there were fleeting moments of well-being. These photos do not do justice to the colors and the day.

I'm not writing much. I had some feedback that my posts were a little bit 'thin' and maybe not so compelling. I'm struggling. You've heard that plenty of times before, so I am mostly keeping to myself.

Hallowe'en survivor.

Thursday, November 14, 2013


So, I wrote this to EJB this morning and realized it summarizes my current state of mind pretty well.

Got your postcard when I went up to Brewster, for which thanks. I haven't finished reading it yet as, sadly, I have never been able to easily read your beautiful script.

You were a presence in my dream last night, with the delicacy of a spider and the reach and strength of an octopus. Can't really say what the "narrative" was, nor were you really embodied, but just weaving some kind of influence or presence throughout. 

Pleased to be back in Brooklyn, yet so filled with self-loathing and disappointment that death seems the rational and right thing. (I wouldn't do this to my new roommate, so no need to be actually alarmed.)

You will perhaps (likely) too well-understand the strange feelings of astonishment and despair that this is where I am and, worse still, who I am. I am so not-in-any way-who-I-thought-I-was. No one could be more disappointed in me than I am. What is on beyond the utter squander of potential? What is this unbelievable and shocking and destructive self-deluded self-romanticism? Are there words for this? Probably French or German … maybe in Russian. 

I can recite a litany of my moral failures back as far as not paying back the $.50 that Patti Snapp lent me at Farrell's Ice Cream Shop in the Stonewood Shopping Center in Downey, California in about 1970. The list goes on and on and on. And I ask myself, who was that? who did that? who was so neglectful? hubristic? unconscious? unkind? 

I used to believe in redemption, enjoy the comeback. Of course, among other things, that requires hope. 

When I look around our current world and see so many of my talented, well-meaning friends in such desperate, terrible, and unexpected straits, well, what else is there besides despair — désespoir — as I see no solutions, no answers, no palliatives, not much amelioration. Far from comfort, satisfaction, self-realization, and far from thriving or happiness. 

Maybe a Buddhist monastery is the only answer. Or maybe I am over-thinking it already. Whatever that remedy (it feels like a dis-ease) might be, it is certainly not in anything I can see or have tried thus far.

Yours still in the struggle,

Sally Anne

Tupelo, hanging in at 17.

Now, I should add that I know there are worse situations, worse lives on this planet. Pain I cannot comprehend, apprehend. I struggle to "get it" in order that I can fix it, see the situation and move on. 

Cooder on her red silk pillow on the new (old) chair.
And I also know that it is ill-advised to publish anything so personal on the internet. But I need to talk about it. And I need, in however small a way, to be seen. Community and understanding are important to well-being. So be it.

Sunday, November 10, 2013


I never leave easily any where I've hung out a lot or lived. Well, except for the apartment on 17th Street in Windsor Terrace, which I never liked. So, I have some sadness tonight.

Things are not bad, but I am absolutely feeling the transition, the in-between-ness. Tonight, I am back in Brewster to organize and pack up more stuff. The car already has as much furniture as will fit, although I have a couple of other pieces I would like to take, small things. I will be able to live without them, though.

The green room is all full of stuff to pack into the car tomorrow. Softer things that will fit into nooks and crannies. It's very peaceful here, and I nearly fell back into my old habits of sitting on the couch, listening to some audio book (this time, the YA book, The Fault in Our Stars), or playing solitaire. 

I brought back all of my books and audio books to return to the Brewster Library; I don't know when I am going to be back and I should try to make more of a break. M & J are considering downsizing which makes a lot of sense as their house is huge for two people and a little-ish dog. 

Albert was out with his parents so I didn't get to take a walk with him. Maybe tomorrow if I am efficient in getting the rest packed up and organized. I do want to try to get back to the city early. More unpacking and organizing there and finding a place to park and and and.

So, the last few days have been very internal and trying to stay away from the dark and scared and worst-case scenario side of musing. I have a lot of Proust to read this week and I need to get that job mojo working asap. B1 got me a little proofreading gig, but there's no telling when that cash will flow my way. There's graphic novel work to be written as Louise and I did a great job of brainstorming some details last week.

And I have some socializing to look forward to. I might have lunch with my nephew who lives in Williamsburg. And I called up my friend Connie and we are going to try to see each other this week. But the focus is on work and sustaining myself which is going to take a lot of effort.

I do miss the kittehs here. I thought about bringing Emmy so that she could hang with Albert and have some space, but she has a tendency to get outside with doors flying open as I come and go to the car. Guess I won't see this in the morning.

Friday, November 8, 2013


How'd it get to be the next day already? Time flies when you are sorting small items and watching Sons of Anarchy I guess. Fortunately, I am almost through with that. 

I did try to read Proust today, but I could not absorb it at all. I was beyond upset at a major misstep and had to spend a lot of the day sliding down the spiral of shame. I don't know that I am recovered even now, but I thought writing wouldn't be a bad thing ... or would it?

Amazingly, even though this week has been challenging on any number of levels, I managed to not drink or eat my troubles away today. And even, at 9:30, managed to take a 30 minute walk. 

Trying to get a good walk is not easy for me. I don't have the inspiration of Albert nor the more or less quiet route already planned. There are many more stop signs and distractions here, but, hopefully, I will figure it out.

So, now, knitting and office supply areas organized, I can take my spiraled self to bed and see if I can make the sleep thing happen.

Wednesday, November 6, 2013


The hydrangeas are a bit different here. John and I went for a walk in the park and around the neighborhood a bit. Reminded me of the bushes up on Carriage Hill Road that I have posted photos of, but clearly this is a much younger plant.

I've been generally productive today, but I am not concentrating very well now. Well, it is 11:26 and I should likely be in bed reading Proust. Yes! The Kermit Place Readers are back into Proust for November and it is most delicious.

Emmylou is back to her ridiculous sleeping positions. We are a little short of sleeping surfaces here. There is a lot of musical chairing going on with the three of us jockeying for positions. It will be better when I get another chair or two and a proper bed. Whatever the size of the bed, I am going to it now.


My window, upper left.
Up crazy early this morning. The kittehs were restless. I really needed to get up for some relief and thought I would just go back to bed. I could hear B2 was up; that gal be workin' it. She has such a full day it made me want to go back to bed right then.

But, the kittehs did want some attention. And if part of this relocation is to change some habits, well, I thought getting up and working for awhile, at least, might be a reasonable start. I came across this quote somewhere yesterday. 

Even if you are on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.

Cooder and I shared some Non-fat Vanilla Greek Yogurt for breakfast. Yum. But now, curatorial work done for the moment, I can crawl back into bed for a bit. 

Check this out.

Now, Wednesday and there go the church bells again. Cooder is sitting on the table at my left elbow soaking in some rays and watching Emmylou scamper about the small space as best she can. I will have to figure out more perches and playthings for them. Sigh. And I need, as I have likely said, to get back up to Brewster for another load of stuff and to clean up. A collector's work is never done. 

I was hanging out with a pal yesterday and what should we hear around noon but that same yellow hard-hat guy (although we didn't see him) walking down the street singing a labor nonsense song? 

I have been walking a bit although it does not feel as fulfilling or purposeful nor as companionable (Albert!) but I have't really been able to focus on it. On Monday, I walked up to B1 who is now 15 minutes away by foot (and that's probably faster than driving as parking could take that long or more). And last night, I walked over to John and Mel's, more-than-five-less-than-10-minutes away. But I need to get in a good hour, perhaps in the park or Greenwood Cemetery.

Monday, November 4, 2013


Who'd a thunk a Roman Catholic church across the street would be one of the primary noisemakers in the new 'hood? On Sunday, the bells (carillion?) go on for quite a while, belting out tunes. This morning, it being 10:00 there was just a short jingle-length tune. 

Slept better last night, but sleeping meds can do that for a person. The kittehs are wandering around, restlessly, although when Emmylou came to wish me goodmorning before I was even out of bed, she was warm, almost hot, from sitting in the sun. 

Interestingly, they seem to be getting along slightly better, which is not at all what I expected. Perhaps because they arrived in this space at the same time there are not the territorial issues. At some point, I will let them explore the hallway. For now, the fact that they will both sleep on the twin mattress seems a positive augury.

No kidding, there is a fella with a yellow hard-hat striding down the street belting a song and as far as I can tell, the refrain is "there goes... communist ..." Not something likely to be heard during an Albert walk in Brewster. Oops, here he come again singing "I'm a racist, you're a racist, and I'll see you in court." The grace here being that he has a half-way decent voice. And now, back to the "communist" refrain.

I'm just dropping info here and there. Cooder has been pacing madly for the last hour. Why? Because Emmylou was sleeping in HER place on the bed. In Brewster, there were plenty of other comfy places for kittens, Emmy preferring the couch in the family room. Here, there are not as many soft places and the bed is small, so Emmy got the good spot. I pulled out the catnip to see if I could get Cooder to chill out. Emmy moved off of the bed and Cooder promptly resumed her spot. We'll have to see what Emmy's next move with be.

Tabbies, in two styles.


Short again. But hey, we have wi-fi. Writing from bed.

I did't get out of Brewster until about 5:00. I unpacked half of the car, and the kittens, myself, fortunately finding a place in front of the building, but having to climb up two flights of stairs. B2 came home and helped with the rest. I honestly don't know where the evening went, but neither Cooder nor I slept very well.

Today was spent mostly unpacking, cleaning, re-arranging, running errands, and getting the Wi-Fi working. I did get a most delicious bath and started reading Proust again. I have  many many pages to read in the next three weeks.

For now, I will try to sleep again. Cooder is at least curled on the end of our blow-up twin mattress on her favorite nap blanket. Hopefully, we will get more rest.

Saturday, November 2, 2013


Don't you love it when animals wheeze and snore? Cooder is all curled up next to me with just a whisper of a snore. Albert snores quite often, too. Emmylou, not so much. Or maybe all her fur muffles it.

The next day. The kittehs know something is up. They are eying me warily as I tear upstairs and down, organizing and packing. 

The house slept in this morning,which rather surprised me as we all went to bed reasonably early. I have been a bit slow in getting going, stopping by the Brewster Farmer's Market, the library, where I had a lovely chat with Michelle my favorite librarian, and at the Eagle Eye Charity Shop where I exchanged words with Flo. I had tears in my eyes. I rarely leave anywhere easily. Then I stopped by Salinger's Apple Farm, Farm Market & Bakery for some local honey and some apple cider biscuits to share with B2.

Later that day.

Okay, well I should post this now. I still clean-up to do, but the car is packed. I know I'll be back soon to finish cleaning, organizing, pitching, and all. 

Off we go, into the wild blue yonder ...

Friday, November 1, 2013


Self-sabotage ... by the way, the word 'sabotage" comes from textile workers in Lyon throwing their clogs, sabots, into machinery to stop it, and at strike breakers. (You can read about the silk textile workers here. I read about it when I visited Lyon in 1992.)

Okay, so now you can tell that I am still in bed writing and have yet to distribute Greenies, drink my sweetness-of-life drink nor made coffee.

The self-sabotage was getting home exhausted and then somehow staying up until very late watching Sons of Anarchy in bed. That and the Cheez-Nips dinner and I am not feeling so perky today. I just didn't fall all the way asleep. D'oh.

Gosh, my recalcitrance to get Greenies got a hungry Cooder to actually eat the food in her dish!

Night now.

Good thing I wrote this morning as I am thoroughly ready to pound the pillows. M, J, and I lazed around companionably this evening watching multiple episodes of American Pickers

I didn't get very much accomplished in the moving world today, but I suppose I am trying to orient myself. I made it to Trader Joe's, took Albert on a good walk, made a very nice pasta, and had a lovely dinner chat with M, who brought home a celebratory bottle of Coppola Red Wine. I'm still stuck at sixes and sevens, but maybe I am ranging from fives to eights now.

It turned into a beautiful day.