IT'S NOT OVER YET

Well, we are still waiting for the snow. It was supposed to start an hour ago, but still nothing. Well, not quite nothing. It is quieter than usual as folks out here hunker down. JV said there were lines at the grocery store at 9:30 this morning. At 3:00, I noticed there were very few bags of chips, potato, tortilla, or otherwise, on the shelves. The soft drinks were mighty scarce, too. 

Back to watching the last hour of Treasure Island. I very much want to go to sleep but 7:00 is just too early. 

I am exhausted. I was in housing court early this morning and I was enormously stressed out to see B2. Adamant, certain, unrelenting craziness and self-righteousness puts me sternly and severely in the anxiety zone. In the end, there would be no recourse in housing court except to be reinstated and that was not going to work. B2 was insufferable. On the other hand, her hair was so in need of coloring that she looked as if she were sporting a nice bald spot. Next steps to be contemplated.

And, of course, she lied and perjured. We weren't under oath yet. SMS was with me to give me the moral support I so dearly needed. I would have probably given up without his presence.

I'm sifting through the experience, looking for a lesson maybe, seeing how I feel. In some respects, I feel I am a coward. I could have insisted on a proper hearing or even a continuance, but I might have had to be convincing that I wanted the rooms back. SMS counseled me that I am a terrible liar and I likely couldn't have stood the strain.

While sitting in the courtroom, I read this poem that arrived in the inbox. I particularly like the last stanza. 

Ephemeral Stream

by Elizabeth Willis

This is the way water 

thinks about the desert. 

The way the thought of water 

gives you something 

to stumble on. A ghost river. 

A sentence trailing off 

toward lower ground. 

A finger pointing 

at the rest of the show. 

I wanted to read it. 

I wanted to write a poem 

and call it "Ephemeral Stream" 

and dedicate it to you 

because you made of this 

imaginary creek 

a hole so deep 

it looked like a green eye 

taking in the storm, 

a poem interrupted 

by forgiveness. 

It's not over yet. 

A dream can spend 

all night fighting off 

the morning. Let me 

start again. A stream 

may be a branch or a beck, 

a crick or kill or lick, 

a syke, a runnel. It pours 

through a corridor. The door 

is open. The keys 

are on the dashboard.

A dream can spend all night fighting off the morning.

At any rate, some of IT is over. I am still fending off anxiety and concern. I'm having a bit of trouble feeling the freshness of the new year, but before I decide to stay in that attitude,  I will try some sleep.

It looked like a green eye ...