I haven't written for days, I know, and it's probably because I'm a hot mess, as Perez would say. I haven't slept properly since coming back from England, nearly a week ago, and find myself waking at three or four every morning. Tonight I was up at one and then three. I have no words anymore. I feel as if someone needs to mow along my backbone with one of those big yellow rolling machines they use when laying roads, to re-inspire the chi. I want to walk in a big wood, surrounded by birds or splash around in a cool, blue ocean, or hide in a cave. Something to bring me back. All I want to do is escape this place, this hot brown town. This evening, with the dogs and J breathing gently beside me, I've discovered a couple of blogs from people living in Uganda. Wonderful, warm stuff. Check out Gandalady and Little Warthog in Blogs I like (on the right hand column).
One Hundred Years of Solitude is still cracked open on page 200. There are six days left till book club. I don't know why I am struggling so with a book I've read twice before (and forgotten, imbecilicly -- the most important book written about The Americas and I can't remember it?)
I am so sorry for DFW's family and his loved ones. This is such an unimaginably hideous thing to deal with -- the death, in his prime, of someone so wildly gifted. I'm not sure why it's affecting me so much. Maybe it's what David Lipsky says.
I miss my son. A lot.
(It's 4:31am and I've woken the puppy - I can hear her wagging her tail in her nighttime crate bed, which means I now have to get up, grab her lead, take her out to pee, and I won't be sleeping again tonight.)