Enga mellom fjella

Intrastate reading on Thames Street? from my journal

ME:

         edited from my Journal:

16 October, pages 2448-9: Market: bought forked carrots, saw various folks including Susan, John F, Larry, Martina and Kathleen (the Snow sisters), Shonna, Ron. Bought a pie from Peter (he's from Baltimore). Nice market, but the season is winding down. Next week should be the last. Cooking up butifarra sausage I bought from Uncle Bill.

I believe there are those who live on the edge of who they are. They dare not stray too far ...or they lose themselves. I swear I was one! Only a leash made of a will-to-live kept me tethered. Yet even now, having explored many of the recesses of my core, I am not comfortable within.

I am a prince of the precipice, a child once used to the edge returning to the edge. Ah—to sever the leash, to roam free.

Well, my temp was 98.2 after a nap. I feel ill, not sick, just weary of living. Lifting one foot after another I made it here (Bernice's) for a slice of lemon cake, a mug of coffee. It's certainly not late, but I'm lacking energy to move. Even my last sketch was tired, "and the moon with her mourning robes, purple, now rose, turning pink".

I have an invitation at 7. Will I find the energy to walk there?

*****

It was an "Intrastate" poetry reading (on Thames Street) with John Myers the opener for James Shea (Nebraska Wesleyan). I liked their poetry. I stayed after (I couldn't find my glasses; they were in my pocket... oops ). I did manage to fold Brian B's chairs (a hard to move latch). I spoke with James' brother (he's at Gonzaga in Spokane) about snails (Physa, etc.) because he's a biologist and I'm reading a text on limnology.

My temp was 99+ when I left, 98.4 now. So I was a tad feverish.

Started a new sketch notebook (Montana Red). I'm up to #225 for the year 167.

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