If you're signed on at the New York Times, go here to read a sweet profile of Stanley Kunitz out standing in his garden.
Sunday morning
I read until 1 a.m. Apple woke me at 3:45. I let the dogs out, then in, then slept until Apple again roused me at 6. I was annoyed. Groggy. Put the dogs out again and slept until 7:30. Best I could do. Bad night, anyway. Bones hurt. Must do yoga today. Oxygen. Give me oxygen.
Another beautiful day; breezy but clear. Hay-moving day. Last chance.
Saturday night
It's late. gradually I've shifted from crack-of-dawn writer to night owl. Seems to follow the light. All winter I dug in upstairs with the books sometimes as early as 5 p.m. Whenever the sun went down. Now it stays light so long I find myself at the computer screen or housework until nearly 10. Night study time is critical to me. I'll have no such luxury after we move. So every moment I can cram some education into my brain is precioussssss.
Late nights mean late mornings. Starting 7:30 earliest. And so on. Finishing up writing time often at noon instead of the 10 a.m. of winter. Then the race to post at feral and run the day's errands.
Energy has plummeted in recent weeks. Not unusual for me--I have passed entire years of my life in semi-coma; just not lately. I do not want to go there again. I can't afford it. there's too much to do. Friday I see the doctor lady about the shallow heartbeat, the funky valve, the lazy thyroid, and see whether I can't get some oxygen flowing to where I need it most--my brain. If I can keep alert, I can move mountains. One would think, by the same token, that moving mountains would keep me alert. Instead, it knocks me out.
I'm half-finished reading Diane Middlebrook's literary bio of Ted Hughes (Her Husband), and I have trouble putting it down. I want to learn all I can about the peculiar methods he used to tap into his subconscious. I'm also picking at a funny little book by Max Beerbohm called Seven Men and Two Others. And of course lots of poems.
I'm worried about my uncle. The Emperor keeps turning up next to the three of swords, a hospital card, a funeral card, and a card of haste. Checking on him too often makes him grumpy, but I'll call him today, anyway.
Greta was startled while wending her way among the family photos on the iron-hearted piano. She jumped, and frames hit the floor, and glass flew everywhere. The one that broke was the largest, my son Jesse from some years ago when he worked at a Kinko's in Chicago. It's actually a color photocopy of his face (there's not a lot to do at Kinko's at 3 a.m.), and it's one of my favorite pictures, irreplaceable. I hope it's not damaged; I couldn't look tonight. If it's OK I'll scan it as insurance.
We didn't transport the six bales of hay back to the llama people today after all. Instead we spent the afternoon at some extended grocery shopping. The cupboards are no longer bare. And filled the pickup with gas for the week. The old Aerostar is in the shop again getting a new starter installed (I think). Between auto expenses and taxes I have held onto not a dime toward the move to North Carolina, in spite of all my aggressive salesmanship the past two months. When the Aerostar is fixed I must swap the pickup in; it's running badly now also. And when I changed over from studded snow tires I was forced to buy new tires for it.
This is me wringing my hands.
Anyway my attention shifts now to livelihood and ideas for books and articles and picking up dropped projects. If I can stay awake. Monday I bake bread again. I was thinking if I offered him some homemade bread maybe I could get N to show me how to use the large weed-eater the landlord left up in the garage rafters. I do not know from weed-eaters. But there are too many stones to simply go out with the mower. And the grass is as high as an elephant's eye.
12:52:02 PM 
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